


Your Heart The Only Place That I Call Home

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M, Romance, Sky Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Frank and his crew of morally ambiguous ethernauts (pirates, as Imperial law would have it, but that's such an ugly word) fetch up on the doorstep of the fabled Sanctuary, they aren't expecting to find much - least of all a long-lost brother, a garden in a box and the key to an ancient riddle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heart The Only Place That I Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who's endured me banging on about this since ~~approximately the beginning of recorded time~~ August. You are all immensely wise and patient and I am truly grateful. More than anything else, though, this is an ode to the creators of the fantasy stories I lived for as a kid and have adored ever since. From me to you, with love.

The sky is burning.

That's Frank's only thought, rattling around his skull to the rhythm of some long-forgotten rhyme as he grits his teeth and holds the wheel steady. There's a shape looming out of the mist of the wastelands, dead ahead of them. If they can reach it, they can dock the ship and make a stand against the royalist scum on their tails. If the fire clawing at the hull reaches the engine or the boiler room before they get there, they'll all plummet to their deaths on the broken stones hundreds of feet below. It isn't much of a choice.

The deck rocks under his feet and a colossal booming noise splits the air, and Frank's mouth twists into a grim smile. Bob is the best gunner he's ever met. If they're going down, they're not going down without a fight.

The dark shape ahead grows as they shriek across the sky towards it. It's a huge, rough slab of rock suspended high above the distant ground, with a thick chain stretching down into the mist to anchor it in place. Frank can just about make out the outline of some kind of strange building balanced on top of the rock - that's good, it'll give them some protection from the soldiers' cannons.

"Hold on tight, men," he bellows, praying that Bob and Mikey are still alive to hear him, and tightening his grip on the helm. "We're going down!"

Frank grits his teeth and aims the skeletal pier jutting out from the rock, and pulls hard on the colossal lever embedded in the deck to fire the anchors. They soar out of their recesses in the hull, rough, heavy hooks on the ends of two long ropes, and catch the wood of the miniature dock. Frank prays a desperate, silent prayer to whatever Gods could still be watching over them that Bob and Mikey will be able to escape the burning ship. He's already sprinting across the deck, reaching for a rope hanging from the rigging and swinging himself overboard. There's a dizzying, eternal moment of freefall before the rope snaps taut and starts to burn his callused palms, then he lets go. He lands hard on the rocky ground, pain exploding all the way down his side as he rolls away and struggles to his feet, their precious cargo still cradled close to his body inside his waistcoat. Two figures have emerged from the strange building, one some way behind the other, and Frank runs blindly for the closer of the two.

"Stay back!" he roars, pulling a knife from his belt and holding the blade to the stranger's throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the other figure stop dead in its tracks, hands raised, while Bob and Mikey emerge from the bowels of the ship.

The soldiers' ship - slender and mean-looking, but pitted with smoking, splintered scorch marks, Frank notes with satisfaction - draws closer. "Who is that? His life means nothing to us," calls the soldier who seems to be in command of the others. The man with Frank's knife at his throat is as still as a corpse, his breathing quick and shallow.

"No?" Frank loosens his hold on his hostage, just a little, and reaches into his waistcoat. He pulls out a small, heavy bundle, wrapped in a rag, and holds it aloft for the soldiers to see. "Maybe not, but I think _this_ might be worth something to you."

He takes a step towards the edge of the rock, making as if to throw the bundle away into the vast, barren expanse of the wastelands below. The soldiers are clustered together like flies on the deck of their ship, and even from this distance Frank sees the panic tear through them. It's what they're here for.

"I'll do it," Frank says, taking another step closer to the edge and holding out the small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He kicks at a pebble and it bounces away, tumbling over the edge and falling, falling, falling until the mist swallows it up. "Go on. Run back to the Capital, you rats. Either you leave this place right now, or you go back empty-handed and explain to whoever sent you that this thing is lost in the wastelands."

Far below them, the thick, dirty mist oozes sluggishly over the barren wastes. Bob, Mikey and the other stranger stand stock-still behind Frank as they wait for the impasse to break. A whisper of a breeze blows a lock of the hostage's hair into Frank's face, and Frank catches the scent of freshly-baked bread before the wind whips it away again.

The silence gapes and yawns like a monster's maw and then, finally, the soldier in command turns away and gives the order to set a course for the Capital. Their ship is limping badly, listing heavily to starboard, and the flock of auxiliary sails clustered around the dirigible are ragged. There's a great, rough-edged hole in the hull where the chart room would have been, Frank notes with relief. In that state, it could take them weeks to reach the Capital, if they get there at all. And without their navigational charts, their chances of finding their way back to this place are slim.

As Frank watches the ship make a slow, laborious about-turn and move off slowly to the east, he exhales deeply and tucks the little bundle back inside his waistcoat. He takes a step back from the edge, but then, suddenly, pain ignites down his side again and he falls backwards, his knife clattering to the ground. He braces his hands on his knees and tries to breathe through the agony. Now that the heat of urgency has started to fade, his injuries are starting to make themselves known in flares and throbs and stabs of pain. He's more badly hurt than he thought. He's dimly aware of the stranger he was threatening just a moment ago staggering away, and kicking Frank's knife out of his reach.

When the stars bursting in Frank's eyes have burnt out and he can see again, he slowly straightens up. The stranger who smells like fresh bread is standing, frozen, opposite Mikey.

Mikey takes a slow step forwards, as if he's trying not to frighten a nervous animal.

"Gerard?" he says, as if he doesn't quite dare to believe it. "Is that..." another step. "Gods, it _is_ you. It's _you_."

And then Mikey - quiet, reserved Mikey - is throwing himself into the stranger's arms, burying his face in the man's shoulder. Frank exchanges bewildered glances with Bob, then looks back at Mikey to see the stranger's fingers curling around the back of Mikey's neck, cradling him like a lost child.

"Mikey," he says in a thick, choked voice. "Michael James Way. _Mikes_. I didn't think... Gods, after all these years."

Frank has never known Mikey as anything but just that. Michael James Way is an unknown, as much a stranger as the man whose arms he's in.

Eventually, Mikey disentangles himself and steps back. "Frank," he says, his voice wobbling slightly. "Bob. This is my brother, Gerard. Gerard, Frank and Bob. My... shipmates."

"My apologies," Frank says weakly, because it seems to be the thing to say after holding one's quartermaster's brother at knifepoint. Now he looks at Gerard, he can see it. The resemblance isn't obvious - Gerard is pale and dark-haired and soft-looking where Mikey is tanned and mouse-brown and lean. His face is round where Mikey's is thin and angular, but they have the same deep, dark eyes.

Gerard ducks his head, his crooked mouth pulling up into a cautious half-smile. "This is Ray," he says, tilting his head in the direction of the other man who followed him out of the building. "This old place wouldn't run without him."

"Speaking of which," says Mikey, glancing up at the strange, lopsided building in whose shadow they're all standing. "Where--"

And then Mikey's legs buckle under him and he falls, his face pale and contorted with pain, and Gerard only just catches him. Ray is at Gerard's side in a heartbeat, helping him take the weight.

"We need to get him inside," Gerard says tersely, watching the slowly spreading rust-colored stain on Mikey's dirty shirt.

Mikey's eyes flutter open, glazed and unfocussed. "Sanctuary," he says, so quietly that Frank has to strain to hear him. "That's where we are, isn't it?" He looks over at Frank. "Frank, drop your weapons or they can't let you in. This is the Sanctuary."

Mikey's eyebrows are drawn together and Frank can tell his teeth are clenched, so he quickly unbuckles the heavy sabre at his hip and reaches for the knife that isn't there before throwing down his gun holster. "The Sanctuary isn't real, Mikey," he says, as he checks his pockets. "It's just a story."

But Gerard and Ray are already bearing Mikey away towards the heavy door of the building, while Bob waits for Frank. Frank flashes him a grim smile of thanks, and, leaning on each other, they follow Ray and Gerard towards the open door.

The building itself, much like everything else about this place, is strange. It's a sprawling old house, apparently built long ago with newer parts attached over the years in more architectural styles than Frank has ever seen together in one place before. The wood and stone and brick looks weathered, and the roof slates are mismatched and snaggletoothed.

Frank and Bob help each other up the low steps before the imposing front door. Frank's wounds throb with every step he takes, and he shakes his head. Of all the places where they could have fetched up, the Fates have guided them to this one. If this really is the fabled Sanctuary (and Frank isn't entirely convinced yet), then their lucky stars must be bright today.

Ray and Gerard lead them into a large hallway full of books and boots and sail-silk and all manner of other things, with cracked, chequered flagstones on the floor.

"Excuse the mess," Ray says, glancing back over his shoulder at Frank and Bob. "It's always like this. Usually worse."

The five of them pick their way through the assorted paraphernalia littering the floor. Frank spots a spyglass, a partially-dismantled pocketwatch and a stuffed frog, all crowded together on a patch of the floor no more than a hand-span wide. Gerard is silent, which is understandable. Not for the first time, Frank wishes he had a brother. It's an old, threadbare dream - after all, he has Bob and Mikey - but it still catches him by surprise now and again.

He and Bob follow Ray and Gerard through to a narrow passageway, the once-fine carpet worn almost clean through in places, and the paneling on the walls pitted with dents and scrapes. At the end of the hallway is a staircase, and Frank groans inwardly and hopes they won't be going too far up. The mere thought is making his knees ache.

Thankfully, Frank only has to struggle up one flight of stairs before Ray and Gerard are carrying Mikey carefully down another narrow hallway and into a long, white-walled room with a row of cots against one wall. They lay him down gently on one of the beds, and Ray starts to unbutton his shirt when Gerard's shaking hands fail.

"Is he--?" Frank starts, anxiously. His head is spinning.

"He'll be fine," Ray says firmly, as Gerard picks up a wooden case propped against the wall and starts to rummage through it. "I promise. We'll have him back on his feet in a day or two, don't worry. You two should sleep, though, you must be tired."

"I'm quite alright," Frank says stubbornly, sitting down heavily on the next bed along. "I just need... a minute or two..."

And that's the last thing he knows before sleep closes over him and everything goes black.

 

*

 

When Frank wakes again, he sees green and thinks for a split second that he's in some sort of jungle. His memory returns in irregular, oddly-shaped pieces: Mikey's long-lost brother, the bright uniforms of the soldiers cut out of the dusky sky, the screaming chase across the wastelands - and the Sanctuary. Of course.

Frank opens his eyes again. He's not in a jungle at all. He's in a bed, in the Sanctuary's sanatorium. But the opposite wall of the room-- Frank blinks. It isn't a wall at all. The sanatorium seems to open directly onto the upper level of some sort of enormous greenhouse, separated only several huge panes of glass. Someone has thrown the windows wide open, letting in the scent of earth and growing things. Frank can see the wrought-iron framework arching up overhead between the lush treetops. Some of them are dotted with blossom, while strange fruits hang heavily from the branches of others.

Frank's urge to explore is itching.

"You're awake," says a voice, breaking into Frank's thoughts. Frank looks up to see Gerard sitting in the chair beside his bed, wearing a small, shy smile. "I'm glad. I wanted to apologies for my rudeness yesterday. To have found Mikey again only to think I was going to-- to lose him for good..." he shakes his head. He looks tired, with thick rings of shadow around his eyes and his hair sticking up in all directions as if he's been running his hands through it. Frank wonders whether he's slept at all.

"Apology accepted," Frank says, grimacing as he eases himself upright. "And I think I owe you one of my own for yesterday. Are we even?"

He offers his hand for Gerard to shake, and Gerard takes it, glancing down at the patterns and pictures sprawled out over Frank's forearm before looking away again. Gerard's hands are strong, with ink stains on his fingertips and soil under his nails. Frank thinks of the greenhouse again and wonders if Gerard is the one who tends it.

"We've cleaned and dressed your wounds," Gerard goes on. "You must be a favorite of Lady Luck, none of them are serious. You'll be just fine in a few days."

"Thank you," Frank murmurs. He aches, but he's had worse. "Are Bob and Mikey--"

"Just fine, I promise," says Gerard soothingly. "Let them sleep." He smiles. "You're a good captain, taking care of your crew."

Frank looks away. "I have to," he says. "We're all we have, out there."

"Still," says Gerard earnestly. "I want to thank you for keeping Mikey safe. Not everyone... understands him. How do you feel? I could get you something for the pain, if you want."

Frank stretches experimentally. He can feel several dull, sore spots, but nothing he can't bear, and he prefers to keep a clear head wherever possible. "No, thank you," he says. "So - forgive me, but where are we?"

One corner of Gerard's crooked mouth quirks up. "Welcome to the Sanctuary," he says, sitting back in his chair and gesturing around him. "Our best defense is the fact that most people think we're just a handful of old stories. We trade - medicinal herbs for building materials, that kind of thing. We repair storm-damaged ships when they blow in. We heal the sick."

Frank nods slowly, turning these revelations over in his mind. "What kind of people... blow in?" he asks.

"Mostly ethernauts like yourself."

"Pirates?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Gerard says breezily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his long legs.

"No?"

"Such an ugly word, don't you think?" One corner of Gerard's mouth twitches upwards. "You're more... redistributors of monetary assets."

"Pirates," Frank says. He didn't understand half of what Gerard just said, but he's fairly sure it still comes down to the same thing whichever way you slice it.

"Oh, come on. Swashbuckling, heroic men of mystery, righting the wrongs of the world by realigning the great scales of wealth."

Frank peers at Gerard out of the corner of one eye, unsure whether or not he's being made fun of. Exactly how does one buckle a swash anyway? What _is_ a swash, come to that? "Pirates," he repeats, and Gerard chuckles.

"If you will, yes. Although, in theory, as long as someone drops their weapons at the door and claims sanctuary, we have no choice but to take them in."

"And are... _all_ the stories true?" Frank asks cautiously. He has another question, but he isn't sure how best to phrase it.

Gerard chuckles, and rolls his slipping shirtsleeve back up to his elbow. His waistcoat is the same thick, earthy shade of darkest brown as his hair, Frank thinks abstractedly. "I take it you're referring to the legend that the secret of eternal life is hidden here? Just a myth, I'm afraid. You know how it is. The truth gets passed around and around and around until it's completely unrecognizable."

At that moment, a horrible thought strikes Frank and he sits up abruptly, reaching for the pockets that aren't there.

"Frank?" A concerned line appears between Gerard's eyebrows. "Is there something--?"

"It should have been in my pocket, wrapped in a cloth, about so big. Have you seen it?"

"Oh! You mean the stone? Here." Gerard produces it from his trouser pocket and hands it to Frank. "Your clothes needed soaking to get the stains out, by the way, you'll have them back tomorrow."

Frank murmurs an abstracted thankyou and peels the grubby rag back until he has the stone sitting in the palm of his hand. It's a rough chunk of some kind of strangely heavy crystal, about the size of a human heart, tawny gold in color with a storm of little bright flecks suspended inside it.

"Do you know what it is?" asks Gerard, studying it with his head on one side while Frank turns it over in his hand.

Frank shakes his head. "No," he says. "Only that the soldiers wanted it badly enough to chase us all the way out here, so it must be special."

They both contemplate the stone in silence for a long moment.

"Breakfast!" announces a voice, and Frank looks over at the doorway to see Ray, bearing a heavily-laden tray in one hand and a hammer in the other. Slowly, carefully, he carries the tray over and sets it down at the end of Frank's bed.

Frank's stomach growls, and he suddenly realizes how hungry he is.

"I thought you might be needing it," Ray says with a wry smile, tucking the hammer into a small pouch hanging from his belt and adjusting the goggles perched atop his head.

"Thank you," says Frank fervently. On the tray are two chipped but clean mugs, made of the pale, blue-tinted clay found only in the Northlands. Frank wonders if they were a gift to the Sanctuary or something given in exchange for medicine or supplies. The mugs are both steaming gently, and Frank catches the dark, spiky scent of coffee. Gerard takes one and cradles it in his hands, inhaling the perfumed steam with an expression that could only be described as ecstatic. Also on the tray are two thick slices of crusty brown bread and two fried storm-gull eggs, as well as a tin knife and fork. Frank finds that he's no longer merely hungry, he's ravenous. He can't remember when he last ate. The bread is warm, and the eggs are generously salted and peppered and deliciously fresh. Frank devours the lot and washes it down with the other mug of coffee with positively indecent haste, while Ray and Gerard make easy, natural small talk about supplies and seasonal trade routes.

"That was quick," remarks Ray when he's finished, raising an eyebrow.

"My, um... apologies for my manners," Frank mumbles, wiping a stray smear of egg yolk from his chin and fighting the urge to lick his fingers clean. He can feel a blush heating his cheeks. Ray and Gerard both seem to be without the snobbery of the Capital's upper echelons, but the way they speak and hold themselves betrays them as high-born. Frank suddenly feels uncomfortably aware of his rough manners and his tell-tale accent.

"No need," says Gerard dryly. "Ray's as brilliant a cook as he is an engineer, but it doesn't hurt to have someone say so every once in a while."

Ray rolls his eyes and mutters something self-deprecating, but he's smiling. "I've examined your ship," he says, and Frank braces himself. There are worse places to be than this, certainly, but the thought of being caged in one place without a ship makes him nervous. It's less about _wanting_ to leave and more about knowing that he _could_ if he needed to.

"What's the damage?" he asks.

"Nothing we can't mend," Ray says cheerfully, and relief floods through Frank. "Just some minor repairs. Mostly to the hull and the rigging, although the dirigible could do with patching and the engine isn't running nearly as smoothly as it could be."

Frank nods slowly and lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Not nearly as bad as he'd feared. "How long? To have her sky-worthy again, I mean."

"A week and a half, maybe? Give or take. And assuming we don't find anything more serious."

"How much?"

Ray looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well - how much? To repair the ship, I mean. How much will I owe you?"

"You don't need to pay us for that," Ray says, looking mildly affronted. "It's what we do. This is a sanctuary, not a shipyard."

"Really? Well, I - thank you. Thank you very much," says Frank, feeling rather wrong-footed. Everything has a price; that's just the way things are, and he's yet to see anything that proves otherwise. The kindness of strangers feels like stepping for a missing stair.

Ray waves his thanks away while Gerard ducks his head with a small, shy smile.

"Don't mention it," says Ray.

Gerard is looking at him intently. "How do you feel?" he asks. "You look a little... glazed."

"'M fine," Frank mumbles automatically, but he is feeling rather light-headed. When Gerard presses a warm, strong hand to his forehead, he tries not to lean into the touch. Gerard's hand feels good, soft but capable, not at all like Frank's own inked and callused and rope-burned fingers.

"No fever," Gerard says briskly. "But you should rest. Try to sleep."

"But I--" Frank starts, then Gerard pins him with a stern look that Frank doesn't care to challenge. "Maybe five minutes," he concedes, lying back and gathering the sheets around him. Gerard rewards him with a smile as bright as summer lightning, and Frank closes his eyes.

 

*

 

"Frank? _Frank!_ For the love of all the gods, wake _up_ , you little rat."

Frank groans and rolls over, hoping that if he ignores Bob hard enough he'll go away and let Frank resume dozing. Frank is so warm, swimming through a liquid state that's neither waking nor sleeping, and it's bliss.

Then a pillow falls on Frank's head, thrown with Bob's unerring aim, and Frank finally admits defeat and sits up. "That's a fine way to speak to your captain," he grumbles around a yawn. "I should have burnt a mutineer's brand on your forehead and dropped you at the nearest port years ago."

From two beds along, Bob gives Frank a look that has reduced greater men than Frank to gibbering idiots. Bob might not have intended to end up half-clockwork after that nasty skirmish in the eastern steppes, but he makes the most of it; that look of his is lethal. It's probably the glass eye.

"I'd like to see you try," rumbles Bob, perfectly deadpan, and Frank feels his face split into a broad grin.

"I'm glad you made it out of the ship yesterday," he says, quietly, after a long moment's silence. "I was worried that the fire had got to you. We need you, me and Mikey."

"Ah, you could live without me," says Bob easily, but he looks pleased. Not many pirates would be willing to sail with a clockwork man like him, but Frank knows a good thing when he has it.

"We'd be lost without you and you know it," says Frank firmly. "We'll set sail again as soon as we can and  we wouldn't dream of doing it without you." Frank looks over at the lump under the sheets of the bed on Bob's other side. "Is Mikey awake?"

"No," groans Mikey. "Don't talk to me, I'm sleeping."

"Back to normal, as you can see," Bob says dryly, raising an eyebrow at Frank.

Frank feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, the kind one only notices in its absence. Bob and Mikey are both alive, neither of them seriously injured. The ship can be repaired. They even still have the stone. A heavy chunk of good luck has fallen right into their hands, and Frank is unspeakably grateful.

"I'm glad we're not leaving just yet," says Mikey quietly, staring through the great windows at the luxuriant greenhouse plants.

Frank looks over at him, surprised. Mikey is the type to get itchy heels after a day in a new town; he's always the keenest of all of them to set off again when they stop at a market town or a port.

"I thought my brother was rotting away in an unmarked grave somewhere," Mikey says, so quietly that Frank has to strain to hear him. "Our mother's mother used to tell us stories about this place, and Gerard kept believing in them long after I'd stopped. Then the wasting sickness took her, and... it was hard for all of us, but Gerard took it badly. He-- he turned to drink, then to the stuff the traders smuggle in from the East when that wasn't enough anymore." Mikey takes a deep breath and pushes his fine, disheveled hair back off his face. This is easily the longest speech Frank has ever heard him make.

"He was a walking disaster," continues Mikey eventually. "We used to be so close, but he wouldn't even talk to me. Then, one night, he went out and just... never came home. We had hundreds of people looking for him, we looked _everywhere_ , but we gave up in the end. We didn't think he was coming back, we buried an empty coffin. We _grieved_."

"But at least you have him back now," says Frank encouragingly. Mikey doesn't cry or sulk or shout when he's unhappy, just withdraws into himself like a snail into its shell. Frank has known him long enough to spot the warning signs.

"I just don't understand why he didn't tell me," Mikey says, sounding hurt. "It would have been easier to know that he was out here all along than to think he was dead."

Frank's gut instincts are as true as arrows when it comes to people, and Gerard seems like a good man, but his first responsibility is to his crew. There's more, he's found, to captaining a ship than maps and charts.

"We'll stay until he's had a chance to explain himself," Frank promises. "Don't worry." Frank has never had any blood brothers of his own (or indeed any true family at all, come to that), and it seems like too precious a bond to throw away. "We won't leave until the two of you have talked."

 

*

 

Frank spends much of the next day or two drifting in and out of sleep, secure in the knowledge that his crew are safe and sound with Ray and Gerard caring for them in between their duties to the Sanctuary. Gerard wasn't lying - Ray really is an excellent cook, although whenever anybody tries to compliment him on it, he becomes flustered and puts it down to the fresh ingredients from Gerard's greenhouse. He and Bob seem to understand each other, though, and Frank wakes up several times to hear the two of them discussing crank shafts and catalysts while Ray changes the bedpans. It's probably a good thing, Frank thinks. He'd be able to make minor repairs to the ship if the need arose, but when it comes to the intricacies of the mechanics, he wouldn't know one end of a Liebig condenser from the other.

Gerard, meanwhile, seems to be the Sanctuary's medic-in-residence. He's the one who changes the bandages on Frank's wounds, and he usually comes to the sanatorium laden with salves and poultices that sap Frank's pain and make him sleepy. Any last vestiges of doubt in Frank's mind that Gerard is high-born drop away one by one, as Frank notices Gerard's vast knowledge of all things medical and his evident embarrassment when it comes to touching Frank. Time and pragmatism must have roughened Mikey's manners and morals considerably, like sandpaper on polished wood, because Gerard has to let his hair fall over his face when his cheeks color as his clever fingers test Frank's bruises. He seems almost childlike, in a way - sweet, and genuine. Frank would never have guessed he was once the drink-addled mess Mikey described.

Two days later (or maybe three, time passes strangely in this place) Frank wakes up and decides that today will be the day when he walks again. Bob and Mikey are both still asleep. They were both in a worse state than Frank when they all arrived, burnt as well as bruised and sprained and scratched, so Frank doesn't wake them. Instead, he sits up slowly, stretching and flexing everything between his fingers and his toes, wary of any hitherto unsuspected sore spots that Gerard's ministrations haven't yet healed. He finds nothing, so he braces his hands against the mattress, gets cautiously to his feet and peels off the thin nightshirt he's in. His clothes have been laid out on the end of his bed since yesterday, clean and dry and neatly folded. Frank has become accustomed to the scratchy stiffness of clothes worn and slept in for weeks on end, and the clean cotton feels strange against his skin.

When his belt is buckled, his shirt tucked in and his waistcoat buttoned, he laces up his boots and walks down the stairs to explore.

The main body of the Sanctuary is sprawling and chaotically laid out, and even Frank's finely-honed sense of direction is useless in the labyrinthine bowels of the house. There's no logic that Frank can see to the way the rooms are placed, nor the narrow, twisting passageways and staircases that connect them. Frank's impression that the house was built some time go and extended over the years as needed is looking more and more probable. Frank finds one cramped room taken up almost entirely by a colossal boiler, gleaming coppery-bright in the gloom, clanking and chuntering softly to itself. Several of the other rooms appear to be guest rooms, with low beds and gaslights and little washstands and dark wood paneling on the walls. Each and every one of them, small though they are, is more luxurious than any room Frank has ever slept in, and he feels as if he's somehow going to dirty them by just standing inside them.

A heavy wooden door reveals the kitchen - a cavernous room with cured hams and little bundles of dried herbs suspended from the ceiling. There are more flagstones on the floor, these ones worn smooth, and a great pot simmering on the stove. Something smells delicious. Frank hopes it's dinner. He investigates a couple of the cupboards crammed into every available space, and finds a menagerie of jars and bottles and tubs. He braves opening the lids of one or two, and sniffs at their contents. They smell spicy and strange and exotic, and Frank wonders if they were brought to the Sanctuary by travelers from the east.

He pads back out of the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him. He chooses a different passageway to the one he came through before, and when he follows it around a corner, he's greeted by an imposing set of double doors. The glass panels set into them are fogged up, but there's sunlight streaming through and illuminating a patch of the floorboards at Frank's feet. He tries the large brass handle and they swing open easily, letting in a cloud of humid, richly-scented air.

Frank, who has seen all the corners of the world in all their splendor, stops and stares.

Trees soar up all around him, branches heavy with fruit and bright flowers, some with thick, gnarled trunks, others slender and delicate-looking. Shrubs sprawl in great terracotta pots, tendrils draped over the edges and reaching towards the sun. Frank notices one with huge, waxy leaves the size of his own head settled comfortably next to one with barely a dusting of greenery on its spidery branches. Here and there, granite-topped tables support smaller pots of mushrooms and aromatic herbs. The wrought-iron framework of the greenhouse arches up above Frank, the sunlight glinting on the panes of glass and pouring down onto the plants below. The scent of earth and blossom hangs thickly in the air, and Frank is dumbstruck.

"What do you think?" asks a voice from nowhere, and Frank startles. It's Gerard, beaming, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a streak of soil on his forehead, a ball of twine in one hand and a copper watering can in the other.

"It's incredible," says Frank honestly, looking around again. "Really. I've never seen anything like it."

Gerard ducks his head modestly, but Frank sees his shy, pleased smile anyway. "Thank you," he says. "It's been something of a labor of love, I suppose. I've always found plants easier to understand than people. Walk with me? I'll show you around."

He stows the watering can and twine away under one of the heavily-laden herb tables and sets off down one of the narrow, tiled pathways through the trees, leaving Frank to follow in his wake.

"There's always been a greenhouse here," Gerard says conversationally. "But it was in a terrible state when I inherited the place. I think it was good for me, though. I... needed something to throw myself into, and here it was."

Frank thinks back to what Mikey told him and imagines Gerard here alone, drawing plants out of the earth while he purged himself of the dependency that was killing him. Gerard might look soft and cosseted, but there's more steel in him than Frank had realized.

" _Inherited_ , you said. Who from?" Frank asks, curious.

Gerard shrugs, and Frank watches the midnight-blue brocade of his waistcoat pull taut across his broad shoulders. "I never knew them," he says. "Every guardian leaves their own mark, but the last one was long gone when I arrived. I needed a way out, I suppose, and I saw one when my grandmother told me the Sanctuary was empty. I was being offered a second chance to make something of myself. I was as fine a mess as this place was. I think we needed each other." He glances back over his shoulder at Frank. "My grandmother came here several times. She ran away with a pirate boy when she was sixteen, you know. It was caused quite a stir. Her family tried to hush it all up, of course, and she went back to the Capital and settled down when it was over, but she never forgot."

Frank's head is spinning as he tries to piece it all together. He thinks he understands why Gerard ran away, and Frank is glad he did. If Gerard had died facedown in a gutter in the back streets of the Capital, it would have been a tragedy. The question of why he didn't tell Mikey remains, though, and Frank can tell there's an important fragment he's missing, something that Gerard is keeping close to his chest. And then there's the Ways' wild grandmother, who had an affair with a common pirate and broke something in Gerard when she passed away. Frank shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it. This is all getting much too tangled for his liking.

"This is one of my favorites," Gerard says after a long moment of silence, pointing out a small, squat shrub with thick, rounded leaves that seem to glow faintly even in the sunlight.

Frank crouches down to look more closely. "It's pretty," he says. "What is it?"

"Argentum Argentarius," Gerard says. "Also known as the money tree. Because of those leaves, you see? They look a little like coins. They used to be used in all sorts of wealth spells. All superstitious nonsense, of course, it can't make you rich. But it can ease the symptoms of melancholia, if it's used properly."

"And this one?" Frank points to a slender potted herb with small, dark green leaves growing in spiky clusters from the thin branches.

"That's thyme. We use it in food, you'll probably recognize it. Here, smell it." Gerard pulls off a few leaves and crumbles them between forefinger and thumb, then holds his fingers under Frank's nose. It does smell familiar.

"Ray puts it in stews, doesn't he?" Frank says, and Gerard nods, his eyes meeting Frank's. His hand is still so close to Frank's mouth that Frank could lick his fingertips, taste the crushed herb on his skin.

Frank clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Oh! Gods, I'm so sorry," Gerard says, suddenly returning to his senses and dropping his hand. He flashes Frank a wry, self-deprecating smile, but Frank can see the color blooming in his cheeks. "I'm not used to having other people in here. Ray doesn't like to spend any more time here than he has to, he says the pollen gets into his hair."

It suddenly strikes Frank that Gerard might not _want_ him trespassing on his inner sanctum. "Don't be," he says. "I should have waited for you to invite me in. I'll just--"

"No! Stay, please. I didn't mean I wanted you to leave, just that I don't get many visitors here. It's nice to have someone to talk to. Plants are excellent listeners, but they aren't much for conversation." His smile is wide and disarming, and Frank can feel his own mouth curling into an answering smile entirely without his consent.

"I'll stay a while," he says. "What's that one over there?"

"This one?" Gerard indicates a small, ordinary-looking shrub growing in an oddly deep pot. "I don't know," he admits, rather grudgingly. "I haven't been able to classify it. It has these little buds - here, see? - so it looks as if it should flower, but it never has. It was still alive when I took over, though, and barely anything else had survived. I thought it deserved to stay."

Gerard points out a few more of his prize specimens to Frank before announcing that a particularly stubborn bay tree needs re-potting, and Frank offers to help. Gerard is more self-assured than Frank has ever seen him, wide-eyed and animated as he tells Frank the old story about the girl who became one with a bay tree to avoid the unwanted advances of a lecherous old god. But something about the plain-looking, resilient little shrub that deserved to stay has lodged itself firmly in Frank's mind, and it just won't be dug out.

When the bay tree has finally been wrestled into its new pot and settled in to Gerard's satisfaction, Gerard dusts off his hands and thanks Frank sincerely for his help. Frank waves his thanks away. It's the least he can do. Profiting from these strangers' generosity still doesn't sit well with him, no matter how firmly they insist that he owes them nothing. Frank follows Gerard back into the house with one last glance back over his shoulder at the greenhouse, and Gerard leads him through to the kitchen.

"I should really help Ray with lunch," he says, almost apologetically, as he pulls the imposing door open, and Frank trots after him. He knows his way around a kitchen; he's been a galley boy on more than a few ships in his time. Making himself useful is helping to erode his uncomfortable sense of debt to the Sanctuary.

Ray is already there, whistling cheerfully to himself as he hacks another thick slice off a huge, crusty loaf of bread with what looks suspiciously like a broadsword. "I see you've picked up a stray, Gerard," he says dryly, without looking up from his work.

Gerard chuckles, bending down to remove a stack of blue-glazed clay plates from a cupboard. "My kind heart will be the death of me." He darts a crooked smile at Frank. "I've been exploiting him for cheap labor. You'll have fresh bay leaves again in no time, Ray."

Ray and Gerard work together so quickly and seamlessly that Frank suspects he's more hindrance than help with lunch. But neither of them seem to object to his presence, and it's no choice at all between the warm, sunlit kitchen and his bed in the sanatorium.

"So I take it you found the guest rooms earlier," says Gerard conversationally, as he starts dividing the bread and slices of cured ham between the plates. Frank feels oddly like a guilty child as he nods, but Gerard either doesn't notice or is too well-mannered to make anything of Frank's discomfort.  "Well, you're welcome to take one of those now you've recovered. Even if you still intend to leave as soon as your ship is sky-worthy again, you'll be much more comfortable there than in the sanatorium."

"Thank you," Frank mumbles. The sooner he's back on his ship and back in a world he understands, the better. "You're very kind."

"Not at all," Gerard says, positively beaming. When he smiles, Frank finds it difficult to believe that Gerard is the elder of the Way brothers. Mikey's smiles, when they happen, tend to be scorchingly bright and brittle at the edges thanks to his illness. "Here, you can thank us by carrying these plates for me."

 

*

 

Frank spends the next morning with Ray and Gerard, hard at work on the ship. Apart from the repairs she needs so urgently, the poor girl isn't looking her best. Ray is cheerfully setting  about the grime-encrusted portholes with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, while Frank and Gerard have resorted to using chisels to remove the more stubborn cloud limpets from the hull. They're making good progress, and sharing the narrow plank hanging over the ship's side with Gerard is surprisingly easy. He isn't one of those people who feels the need to fill every quiet moment with chatter, despite his enthusiasm for certain subjects, and it's rather restful. In fact, the more time Frank spends with him, the more like Mikey he seems. It certainly isn't as uncomfortable as it should be, given the regrettable circumstances of their first meeting.

"Goodness, this one really is quite-- ngh, stuck," Gerard grits out, trying vainly to wedge his chisel underneath the lip of a particularly sizeable shell.

"Here, let me," Frank says, leaning across Gerard and worming his own chisel in from underneath. Finally, it gives, and comes away from the hull with a forlorn pop.

"Caelifer," murmurs Gerard, running his fingertips lightly over the peeling gold paint of the cursive script on the hull. "Interesting name for a ship. Do you know what it means?"

Frank stops testing the edge of a scorched hole in the wood to glance up at him. "Is that what it says?"

"Didn't you ever look?" asks Gerard, raising one eyebrow. "I thought this ship was your pride and joy."

"I looked," Frank says, tilting his chin up defiantly, bracing himself for Gerard's scorn. Or worse, his pity. "I just never had anyone to teach me to read."

"Oh, gods, I'm sorry, I wasn't-- I didn't mean to... I beg your pardon," says Gerard stiffly, looking away, his cheeks coloring.

Frank barks out a laugh. Gerard really is rather endearing when he blushes. "No need. I think I get by well enough, for a dock brat. Go on, tell me what it means."

"I... of course," Gerard says, looking relieved to be back on familiar ground. He glances up at the newly-patched dirigible overhead, bright and clean-looking in the morning sunlight. "It's from _caeli_ , for sky. It means sky-bearer."

 

*

 

That afternoon, another ship is spotted approaching the Sanctuary. Frank's immediate, panicked thought is that it's the soldiers returning for the stone, but as it draws close, he starts breathing again. It's much too small for a military vessel making such a long trip, and it doesn't seem to be flying the imperial colors.

He follows Ray and Gerard out to the gantry where his own ship is tethered. He wonders whether these new arrivals are pirates in need of succor, merchants, traders, explorers in need of supplies. Whoever they are, Frank hopes - rather uncharitably - that they won't be staying long. It's a ridiculous thought; Frank and his crew have no more claim to this place than any other ethernauts, and there's more than enough room for at least a dozen people to live quite comfortably in the sprawling Sanctuary. Frank pushes it from his mind.

The little rickety quay stretches into the sky over the wastelands from a rough, rocky outcrop set a little way away from the main house. Their boots crunch in the coarse pebbles underfoot, dotted here and there with tufts of hardy, almost colorless grass. Ray and Gerard stop just short of where the rock meets the wooden struts, waiting, and Frank comes up to stand by Gerard's other side. The strange ship glides to an easy, controlled halt next to Frank's, looking small but sleek in comparison. The three of them watch as the weighted ropes are fired from their recessions in the hull and tether the ship to the pier, swiftly followed by a rope ladder and two figures. They're both women, both dressed in waistcoats and high boots, both armed, and both walking with an easy, unhurried confidence which seems to suggest that they know this place. They fall into step with each other as they get closer and one throws her head back and laughs, slapping the other jokingly on the shoulder.

"Ladies," says Ray, as soon as they're within earshot. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

" _Ladies_ , he says," snorts the one with dark hair tied loosely in two bunches, looking over at the other. "Did you hear that? Ray, you old charmer."

Ray chuckles good-naturedly and shakes her hand. "It's good to see you," he says, warmly.

"I trust you've been missing us," says the other woman, as the first laughs again and throws her arms around Gerard, clapping him on the back.

"Oh, of course. We've been absolutely miserable ever since you left," Gerard says, straight-faced. "Frank, Miss Lindsey Ballato and Miss Amanda Palmer. Our favorite traders."

" _Traders_? Really, Gerard?" says Lindsey, mock-affronted, and Gerard laughs.

"Of course. I beg your pardon. The bravest, most intrepid smugglers in the skies," he amends, and Lindsey unwraps one arm from around his shoulders to shake Frank's hand. She has a strong grip, the palm of her hand rope-callused like Frank's, as well as a broad smile and an expensive accent softened by years spent away from the Capital, much like Gerard's. Frank takes in Gerard and Lindsey's smiles, their windswept dark hair, their bright eyes. They look like two halves of a matched set. It's rather disquieting, somehow.

"So," says Ray, clapping his hands together as Lindsey unbuckles her thigh holster and Amanda removes an ornate stiletto from an inner pocket. "What have you got for us?"

 

*

 

That night, in the guest room, Frank spends what feels like hours chasing elusive sleep. Every time he thinks he has it in his grasp, it slips through his fingers like smoke. The soft sheets seem determined to ensnare him like a fly in a wood-spider's web, and even the snow-goosedown mattress feels hard and lumpy in all the wrong places. He tosses and turns and gazes unseeingly at the rafters above him. All he can do is lie and wait for sleep to claim his restless bones.

He succumbs gratefully some time later, bright crescent smiles like the edges of silver coins dancing before his eyes.

 

*

 

When Frank wakes and realizes that he's not alone, his first instinct is to go for the knife that should be under his pillow but isn't.

"I beg your pardon, Frank," says the figure sprawled in the chair in the corner, and Frank relaxes. It's Gerard.

He sits up, gathering the sheets around himself and blinking the sleep from his eyes. "Not at all," he says around a wide yawn. "What can I do for you?"

Gerard holds up the stone. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hair is tousled, but the gaslight gives him a strange, otherworldly glow. It glints in his eyes, on his lips, dusts his cheeks with gold and glitters in the heart of the stone. "Frank, with your permission, I'd like to perform some tests on this stone. Do you really have no idea what it is?"

Frank shakes his head. "No," he says. "None at all. We found in a burnt-out farmhouse in the lowlands. We only took it with us because we thought it might be worth something to the jewelers in the Capital."

Gerard nods slowly, considering, and it suddenly strikes Frank how odd it is that Gerard slipped in without knocking while he was sleeping. The years of relative isolation must have dulled the keenly-honed sense of convention that the Capital fosters.

"I don't think any jeweler would take it," says Gerard thoughtfully. "It's much too heavy to be comfortable to wear. And from what I can tell, it's much too hard to cut and shaped without highly specialized tools."

Frank sits up a little straighter. Gerard's absorption in the riddle of the stone is contagious. "We thought it looked like amber," he says, but Gerard shakes his head and makes a noise of dissent.

"No," he says. "The color isn't quite right, see? Not to mention the weight. The structure is all wrong, too, look at those straight edges. And these little flecks, I can't think what would have made them. It almost looks as if they're magnetic. I wonder..." he lapses into silence, turning the stone over in his hand, a frown creasing his forehead.

Frank chuckles. "Take it," he says. "Go on, satisfy your curiosity. You'll be doing us all a service if you can work out what it is."

Gerard rewards him with the same smile he wore when Frank stumbled into the greenhouse uninvited yesterday. The gaslight is doing strange things to Gerard's skin, making him look otherworldly and ageless, all burnished gold and liquid shadows. He looks almost as if he's lit from within, like some long-lost son of the fey folk.

"Thank you," Gerard says, startling Frank out of his reverie. "I'll leave you to rest."

Frank watches him go. The room suddenly feels very empty without him.

He lies in the soft, comfortable bed until the silence starts to gnaw at him, then kicks the sheets off and reaches for his shirt. He dresses quickly and splashes some water on his face from the basin in the corner, then closes the door behind him on his way out.

When he reaches the sanatorium, Bob and Mikey are not only both very much awake, but appear to be arguing about the relative merits of storm-gull and water rat meat.

"Oh, stop," Frank grins from the doorway. He _knew_ they'd both be fine, but he didn't really believe it until now. Misfits they may be, with Bob's clockwork heart and Mikey's troubled mind, but, gods, Frank loves them both. He shakes his head, mock-ruefully. "You belong in the heart of high society, both of you. You're wasted on the humble likes of me."

"You have a true gift for stating the painfully obvious," says Mikey gravely, somehow managing to look down his nose at Frank despite the fact that he's sitting in a bed while Frank stands. "Anyway, Bob, it's about the _gristle_ , not the hair."

Bob laughs as Ray's footsteps sound on the stairs, and a moment later he appears in the doorway behind Frank.

"There's breakfast in the kitchen, if any of you can still face the thought of eating after that," he says, looking distinctly green. He claps Frank sympathetically on the shoulder as he grimaces, but Frank feels warm and weightless and _safe_.

 

*

 

Frank's appetite returns before long, as it always does. He suspects it's a remnant of his childhood as a dock brat, when he was entirely dependent on the charity of the street traders and passing nobles and his own talent for picking pockets.

He reaches the greenhouse before he remembers that Gerard isn't there. Frank wonders if he's made any progress with the stone yet. Being alone in the greenhouse is strange, and Frank almost turns back to see if Ray needs any help in the kitchen. But then he reminds himself sternly that he is a pirate and an explorer, and if he's too faint-hearted to face a _greenhouse_ alone he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Frank wanders aimlessly down one of the little tiled paths. He recognizes a few of the plants that Gerard told him about yesterday, like the pot of sparrow grass and the star anise and the spiky rosemary bush, but most of them are strange to him. He inhales deeply, tasting the air. The sun is already high in the sky and it's hot and damp, the tang of the soil and the freshness of growing things mingling with the sweetness of the sprays of blossom scattered around. It's a very different kind of peace to that of open sky, but Frank is beginning to understand Gerard's devotion to it. It's also a world away from the decadence of the Capital - purer, and more honest. Earth and sky, Frank thinks to himself with a small smile. A garden on a floating rock and a sky pirate with soil on his hands. He sinks his fingertips into the soft, springy earth at the base of a delicate-looking tree with curious, blue-tinted leaves. There's a pleasing contradiction to that, or perhaps just an odd kind of equilibrium. Frank was never one for philosophizing.

He straightens up again, brushing his hands off on his shirt. It's a little ridiculous, he knows, but he wants to find that odd, nameless little shrub again before he leaves. His keen sense of direction tugs him down another path, and he follows it. The treetops overhead are whispering to each other, sharing secrets while they gather protectively around Frank. He's no stranger to feeling small (an inevitable consequence of seventeen years spent aboard various airships), but to feel it here, with both feet on the ground, is an entirely novel experience. For the briefest of moments he almost envies Gerard, but then he spots the herb table he was looking for, and all such thoughts seep from his mind for the time being.

 

*

 

Frank finds himself back in the kitchen that evening, helping Ray dice vegetables and add them to the colossal cast-iron pot simmering on the stove. Frank watches him open jar after jar to add a pinch of their contents to the stew, each one releasing a breath of fragrance. Ray's sleeves are rolled up and he looks relaxed and confident, tasting the stew every now and again and occasionally adding leaves straight from the bundles of dried herbs suspended from the ceiling. Whatever it is smells incredible, rich and spicy. Frank's mouth is already watering.

"What is it?" he asks, as Ray reaches into the basket on the window sill and pulls out a handful of large, cream-colored mushrooms with pink-tinged gills underneath the caps.

Ray chuckles as he begins to cut the mushrooms into rough chunks. "I've refined it, but it's my grandfather's recipe. He was a cook in Lord Morrison's household for years - that's where he met my grandmother. He made all kinds of pastries and the like when other nobles visited, of course, but this was what he cooked for the other servants at the end of a long day. Here." He dips his spoon into the pot and offers it to Frank, who tastes it. He tries to control himself, but his eyes roll back and he makes a noise of the sort that is entirely inappropriate for polite company. Ray laughs, not unkindly, and looks quietly pleased.

Not long afterwards, he announces that it's ready and goes to fetch the others, while Frank lays out chipped porcelain bowls and mismatched cutlery on the kitchen table. Ray is gone a suspiciously long time, and when he eventually returns, it's with a long-suffering expression and a thoroughly shamefaced Gerard in tow.

"I'd be lost without you," Gerard mumbles contritely, as Ray wraps a rag around the pot's handle and carries it over to the table.

"Oh, I know you would," says Ray dryly, but he flashes Gerard a fond smile. Bob, Mikey and Gerard join Frank at the table as Ray starts to divide the contents of the pot between the bowls and places a large, crusty loaf of bread in the middle of the table.

"I tend to get rather... _absorbed_ in my research," Gerard says sheepishly. Frank thinks it's actually rather sweet.

"Have you made any progress today?" he asks. Ray takes his seat and breaks the bread as Gerard shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says. "Frank's been kind enough to let me conduct some tests on the stone you found," he adds for Bob and Mikey's benefit. His eyes are bright like new pennies with the thrill of such an intriguing challenge. "It's fascinating, I've never seen anything like it. It's definitely crystalline rather than organic, so it can't be any kind of sap, but beyond that--"

"Eat," says Ray firmly, pushing a spoon into Gerard's hand. "Or I won't be held responsible when you start getting fainting spells again."

And it's the strangest thing, but, somewhere between Gerard's mock-resentful _yes, mother_ and the warm bloom of laughter that fills the room, Frank realizes that he's somehow acquired two new friends.

The rest of the meal passes quickly, the conversation ebbing and flowing easily until all of the food has been eaten and Gerard excuses himself to return to his work. Bob and Mikey stay to help Ray clear up, and Frank finds himself walking back upstairs at something of a loose end. The door to Gerard's study is ajar, spilling a sliver of inviting, honey-colored light over the floorboards of the landing as he tries to pry the secrets out of the mysterious stone. Frank wonders if Gerard has any answers yet. He's tempted to go in and ask. It would take so little, just a few paces forwards and a knock on the panels of the door. He can almost see Gerard at his desk, his hair ruffled and his fingertips ink-stained and his eyes wide and bright.

But Gerard is working, and won't want to be imposed upon by Frank's idle curiosity. Frank turns away from the door and pads away up the uneven stairs to his own room.

 

*

 

Frank spends that night chasing after insubstantial scraps of real sleep, hounded by oddly vivid dreams. The details of the dreams slip away like water through cupped hands as soon as he wakes from them, leaving Frank feeling rather cheated. If he could only remember what they were about, the troubled night might be worth it. Perhaps it's the wanderer in him locking horns with the part of him that's rather enjoying being more settled than he has in years.

Whatever it means, Frank still spends most of the night tossing and turning in his bed. By the time the sun comes up again, the soft sheets are tangled around his limbs and he feels tired already. He sits up and tries to shake his head clear, blinking the groggy haze from his eyes. His hands feel clumsy and uncooperative, and getting into his clothes and lacing up his boots presents an interesting challenge. He stretches and yawns so widely his jaw cracks, then braces himself and looks into the beaten silver mirror on the wall. Silver mirrors are highly prized by the nobility for the luminous, almost ethereal quality they impart to the viewer's reflection, hence their nickname of moon mirrors. But apparently it's going to take more than a moon mirror to smooth away the bruised-looking shadows under Frank's eyes, the localized pandemonium of his hair and the uneven stubble on his chin. He washes his face and resolves to fetch his razor from the Caelifer, then trudges downstairs to the kitchen.

Bob and Ray are already seated at the large marsh-cedar table, and when Frank stumbles into the room, Ray greets him with a bright, honest smile. Bob opts instead for a lazy salute, then returns to his conversation with Ray. Frank tries to pick up the thread, but soon gives up. He takes one of the pale blue clay mugs down from a shelf, and fills it from the gently steaming pot of coffee on the table. He adds a generous spoonful of grainy golden sugar and takes a seat, cradling the mug in his hands.

Thankfully, the coffee breathes some life back into him, and before long he's able to make sense of the discussion taking place in front of him.

"So," Ray is saying, counting on his fingers. "We still have to patch the mainsail and the topsail. And the engine..."

"Mine," Bob says. "She's temperamental. She needs to be treated like a lady." He favors Ray with a rare, genuine smile. Frank hopes Ray knows how lucky he is. "The cooling system needs re-calibrating and the valves need adjusting. And I'm going to oil the pistons and the hinges."

"Of course," Ray agrees gravely. "And if you take the engine, I'll replace that missing exhaust pipe."

"And we should check the rest of the hull for damage."

"Yes, yes. I think that's everything, though, isn't it? Apart from the rigging. And that's... two days' work. Maybe three."

Bob elbows Frank. "Did you hear that? We'll be setting sail again soon. I'm sure you can't wait to get away."

"Mm? I - yes," says Frank. "Yes, of course." But somehow, he doesn't feel quite as relieved as he thinks he ought to. It feels too soon, as if they have unfinished business with this place. There are still too many unanswered questions rattling around the old house. And, as far as Frank knows, Mikey still hasn't had the chance to talk to Gerard. That must be what it is, he thinks, blowing on his coffee to cool it and watching the dark surface ripple in the wake of his breath. Frank envies Mikey his long-lost brother, and to leave frayed loose ends behind doesn't sit well with him.

And then he remembers himself. He is an ethernaut and a pirate, an outlaw, a thorn in the backside of the aristocracy, and he has a reputation to uphold. They will take to the skies again as soon as the ship is ready, and not a moment later. Thus resolved, he takes a hearty swig of his coffee and steals a piece of bread from Bob's plate.

 

*

 

That afternoon, the sky begins to pale ominously with the particular absence of both clouds and sun that warns of an approaching storm. The strange colorlessness of the sky reminds Frank of the parchment slums that encircle the Capital like scum around the rim of a porcelain bathtub. He remembers faces bleached of all hope and life, clothes worn and faded to rags, blank expanses of paper pulp hammered flat and left outside to dry. Frank has only seen skies like these a handful of times, and he remembers each one a good deal too vividly. A storm is coming. A big one.

Another ship draws close to the Sanctuary, and this time, Frank knows it all too well. He curses under his breath as he squints at it through his spyglass from the house's tumbledown north tower. He'd recognize that ungainly patchwork ship anywhere. He's been hoping for years for a chance encounter with its captain in some seedy tavern, to teach him a lesson. Ideally, this lesson would involve Bob and Mikey holding the bastard down while Frank hit him.

Frank collapses his spyglass again and tucks it into his belt, then makes his way back down the tightly-curved spiral staircase to meet the new arrivals.

From the broad steps in front of the heavy main door, Frank can just about discern Bob's silhouette working on the hull of their own ship. The patchwork ship is docking now, four little figures clambering down a rope ladder onto the pier. Ray is close behind Frank, casting a worried glance at Frank's grim expression.

The muddled, clumsily-built ship matches its crew. The four of them are a mismatched lot - one with long, stringy hair, one with a sleepy-looking face, one with strikingly bone-white hair and one with enough steel through his skin to mark him as a son of the rough eastern docks. Frank regards them through narrowed eyes. So these are the bastards who got them into trouble in the eastern steppes and then turned tail and ran. It's thanks to them that Bob came face-to-face with the choice between death and half-life as a clockwork man.

Bob is a good, honest man with the patience of a saint and enough sense for three people.

Frank is not.

He strides towards the straggly-haired ringleader and shoves him backwards. "Captain McCracken," he spits. "I like to have a face to put to a name. You've got some _nerve_. You should be ashamed." The ragged crew gather behind their captain. He's small, evenly matched with Frank himself, not that such a disadvantage has ever discouraged Frank in the past.

"What kind of pirate are you?" returns McCracken, pushing Frank back. "Some noble's spoilt little lapdog? _We_ go wherever we will."

Frank is speechless with fury, his blood shrieking in his ears. But before he can spit in McCracken's face, a strong hand seizes him by the scruff of his neck and drags him away.

"Frank," says Ray sharply in his ear. "This is a _sanctuary_. Starting fights would oblige us to close our doors to all of you, regardless of who was at fault. They won't be here long, go inside if you can't keep a civil tongue in your head."

Frank watches a nasty, self-satisfied smiles flicker between McCracken and his men, and bile rises in his throat. He wants every last one of them to hurt like Bob did. He wants to hear them howling and begging for mercy while the back-alley doctors cut them open to replace the damaged organs and skin with unforgiving copper and steel. Frank lunges forwards, but Ray is bigger and stronger and holds him back.

"Inside," Ray repeats, propelling Frank back towards the house. "Go."

The rage is still thrashing and bubbling in Frank's gut, but he drives it back. They can't leave yet, and if that means choosing to walk away from a fight to avoid being thrown out, then so be it. Gerard and Mikey still haven't talked, Mikey still hasn't quite recovered, and they haven't even finished repairing the ship. Let the past lie, Bob has always said. Don't go digging up what's already dead and buried. Frank's heart strains against his head, but he forces himself back up the stairs and into the house.

He crosses the main hall's worn flagstones and finds himself following the narrow passageway that leads to the greenhouse. He doesn't even spare a thought for whether or not he'll find Gerard there; he just needs a moment to ground himself.

But when he turns the last corner before the steam-fogged doors, Frank stops. He ducks out of sight, but can't quite bring himself to walk away. He can see Gerard and Mikey, almost silhouetted against the  clinging to each other for dear life. Mikey is taller, but his face is pressed into the curve between Gerard's neck and his shoulder and it looks _right_ , somehow. Gerard's mouth is moving, chanting the same words over and over again like a prayer. Frank almost has to stop breathing to make it out. _I'm sorry_ , Gerard is saying. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

Frank smiles to himself, and slips away again.

 

*

 

By teatime, the skies are a deep, livid shade of purple like a ripe bruise, sore and swollen. Rain has started to fall, shunted this way and that by vicious gusts of wind. Both Ray and Gerard are tight-lipped and tense but businesslike, making sure all the doors and windows are tightly closed and pushing rags into the gaps to stop the rain getting in.

"This is why the wastelands are the way they are," Gerard says as he bolts the back door of the greenhouse while Frank hovers anxiously behind him. Being aboard an airship in a storm is terrifying, yes, but also the purest, most powerful thrill there is. Somehow, being here while the storm chases them down is actually more frightening. Not only are they at Mother Nature's mercy, tethered here with no way to run and hide, but there's more to protect here. Gerard's carefully tended paradise in its little glass box, for instance, and the stone, the key to some strange, ancient riddle.

"Why?" Frank asks, as Gerard turns back towards the open door with the house on the other side of it.

"The weather. Nothing grows by itself out here because there are no seasons. Sometimes we get blistering heat one day and snow the next. Nothing has time to grow strong enough to withstand it."

Gerard locks that door too before leading Frank into the kitchen. Ray, Bob and Mikey (or, more probably, Ray and Bob) have pushed the heavy table up against one wall and are sitting close together on the floor, surrounded by a nest of assorted blankets and quilts while Ray lights a fire in the grate.

"What now?" says Mikey. He's wrapped in a spectacularly ugly quilt and looks decidedly pathetic, and Frank catches Gerard looking fondly at his brother.

"Now we wait," Ray says with a shrug, adding a heaped spoonful of some aromatic, rust-colored powder to the contents of an enormous frying pan. "And we pray that the storm doesn't do any damage we can't undo."

Frank feels rather than hears the first roll of thunder from outside, a low, threatening rumble that hits him right in the gut.

"If you have something to pray to, now is the time," says Gerard dryly, but Frank is sure he saw Gerard flinch at the thunder. He looks strangely young.

It's a strange feeling, knowing a storm is raging outside but not being able to feel the wind like the thrashing of some great beast. Frank is accustomed to being aboard airships designed to skip through storms unharmed, but this is profoundly strange.

The contents of Ray's frying pan soon begin to fill the kitchen with the familiar scent of wood almonds roasted with sugar and spices, a treat Frank hasn't had the opportunity to enjoy in some time. Gerard is visibly uncomfortable, fidgeting where he sits and startling at every sound of the storm's fury, his eyes darting around the room like those of a frightened animal. They try to distract him with old songs and laughter and loud, coarse jokes, and their efforts seem to settle him a little. He still looks anxious, though, and the urge that Frank likes to think of as his captain's intuition (Bob and Mikey call it his mother hen tendency) prods him to do something.

Frank was never good with words, but he smiles reassuringly when he catches Gerard's eye. Gerard tries to return the smile, but it looks forced and brittle, and the budding sympathy in Frank's chest blossoms. Propriety be damned, he's going to comfort Gerard the only way he knows how. The others' conversation fades to a distant blur and Frank edges closer to Gerard, watching carefully for the slightest sign of unwillingness from him. Gerard doesn't move, so Frank shifts closer again, his shoulder brushing Gerard's. Gerard starts but then immediately relaxes, leaning into Frank gratefully, warm and close. Frank aches to pull him closer still, wrap his arms around Gerard and hold him, but he restrains himself. Propriety is one thing, embarrassing a man in front of his friends and his brother is quite another. This will have to be enough. Frank is struck again by how much like a frightened child Gerard seems, and, suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Frank feels the tug of belonging - being wanted, being _needed_ \- in his gut.

Frank stays close to Gerard and sinks back into the comfortable warmth of the conversation while the wind howls and the rain lashes outside. Gerard breathes a small, soft sigh of contentment, and Frank wonders, just for a moment, if this is what _home_ feels like.

 

*

 

When the sun comes up again the next morning, the storm has burnt itself out. The air smells like fresh rain when Bob opens the window, but the morning is bright and clear, and the scent of giddy celebration is in the air. Frank's back aches after a night spent under a quilt on the kitchen floor, and his neck twinges every time he looks left, but they're all unharmed and the Sanctuary is still standing. Ray sets to work immediately on preparing a generous breakfast, and as they drag the table back to its former position and take their seats, Gerard shoots Frank a small, secret smile.

Ray's cooking tastes even better than usual, Frank thinks, tearing into a thick slice of bread soaked with salted butter. The cooking aboard the ship should, by rights, be Mikey's responsibility, but Frank shudders at the very thought. He does the best part of it himself, trying to cobble square meals together from the cured hams and pickled vegetables in the hold, but this is as well as they've all eaten in a long time.

"So," Bob says, when most of the food has been annihilated. "Should we go and assess the damage?"

Ray grimaces, and puts his empty mug back down on the table. "No time like the present," he says, pushing his chair back and gathering the plates and cutlery into his arms. "This old place isn't going to repair itself. Come on."

The others file out through the kitchen door after Ray, with Frank and Gerard bringing up the rear.

"Are you ready?" Gerard says dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Frank is so distracted by the tilt of his crooked smile and the morning sunlight on his skin that it's a long moment before he answers. "Am I--? Oh, of course. I'm sorry," Frank mumbles, trying to shake his head clear. It hasn't been long, but living without the constant threat of bandits and soldiers and capricious weather has already begun to dull his wits and slow his mind. Something about this place is working some strange siren spell on him, and if he's going to remain fit to be a captain, he can't let it succeed. He pushes the heavy door open again and holds it for Gerard, then follows him through.

As Ray leads them through the battered Sanctuary, it soon becomes apparent the storm's wrath has left it largely unscathed. There are one or two missing roof slates lying in pieces on the front steps, but, thankfully, none of the damage is serious. Frank feels an oddly intense wave of second-hand relief. They've been spared; everything has survived.

Everything, that is, but the east cellar.

"Flooded," Ray says grimly, hoisting himself back through the trapdoor a little way from the house's east wing. He kneels down and presses his hand to the crumbling wood, mossy and bloated with rainwater. "The seal must have broken." He straightens up again, turning to face the others.

"What was down there?" Frank asks.

Ray's brows are drawn into an uncharacteristic frown. "Flour and grain, mostly, and about six months' worth of cured ham and cheeses. All of it spoilt."

Bob swears. "How much was it worth?"

"The cost isn't the problem." Gerard runs a hand through his hair, looking drawn and worried. "We could pay for it easily, but without those supplies, the food we have left won't last three weeks. It could be twice that before any traders pay us a visit."

"Oh," Frank says, relieved. "Is that all? We'll go. We have a ship with an empty hold. Ray, if you could give us anything you can spare to trade and make a list of everything you need and give it to Mikey..."

"We couldn't ask that of you," says Gerard, his mouth twisted unhappily to one side. "There are soldiers everywhere--"

"There are always soldiers," Bob rumbles, cracking his knuckles. "Leave us to fret over that. We've taken care of them before. "

Ray looks over at Gerard. "I know you don't like it, but unless you have an alternative, it's the only way."

"I know," Gerard says, and turns back to Frank. "Thank you," he says. "We're very grateful. Just - be careful. Be safe."

This last seems to be directed at Mikey, who smiles wryly back at his brother. "We always are," he says.

 

*

 

There's no time to spare if they want to set sail by nightfall, and the five of them are suddenly pitched into a flurry of activity. Bob leads Ray away and into the Caelifer's chart room - after all, Bob, Frank and Mikey still aren't entirely sure where they are, and there's no point in sending them on a trading expedition if they aren't going to be able to find their way back. Meanwhile, Gerard summons Frank and Mikey to the kitchen, where he seizes a stained sheet of paper and a quill and draws a line roughly down the middle.

"Two lists," he explains without looking up from his work. Frank is momentarily distracted by the way Gerard bites his tongue when he concentrates, then, with an effort of will, pushes the thought from his mind. "One of the things we need, one of the things we'll give you to barter with."

"Your handwriting is appalling," Mikey remarks, tilting his head to one side and squinting at the page. "You ought to be ashamed."

"It's no worse than yours," Gerard retorts instantly, with the ease born of long familiarity. Just for the briefest of moments, something in Frank aches bittersweetly. None of Gerard's sprawling, looping hieroglyphs mean anything to him, but he likes the way they look, the ink settling into the paper.

Gerard mutters to himself as he works, rough calculations peppered with curses and angry crossings-out and the occasional semi-coherent sentence about the  value to weight ratio of cheese. Frank wonders if he talks to himself when he's locked up in his study, and whether in the greenhouse he talks to the plants instead.

"There," Gerard announces eventually, adding one last item to the page with a flourish, blowing on the ink and handing it to Mikey. "Michael James Way," he says, sounding almost proud as Mikey hums to himself and runs one bony finger down the right hand column. "Quartermaster of a pirate ship. Who'd have known?"

 

*

 

That night at dinner, Frank excuses himself early. He wants to take advantage of the comforts afforded by the Sanctuary while he can, and he feels that he'd be a fool not to enjoy his last night in a goosedown bed. He's looking forward to it already, to gathering the covers around him and waiting for sleep to take him. As much as he loves being aboard the ship, a few hours of solid sleep are a blessing.

"Frank?"

Frank startles, almost falling back down the stairs. "Gods! Gerard. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Oh." Gerard looks down at his boots. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been... lurking. I wanted to talk to you." He shifts forward, out of the deep shadows of the stairwell. He's wide-eyed and sincere, sweetly guileless like no one else Frank has ever known, and Frank feels a pang of something bittersweet and unidentifiable. Gerard reaches out and rests one hand on Frank's arm.

It's as if time has snarled itself into a tangle like frayed string. The moment stretches, the warmth of Gerard's skin strange and _new_ , his eyes too dark to read.

"Um," Frank says, eventually, when the tension becomes unbearable, and the spell is broken. Gerard drops his hand and looks away, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"The stone," he says. "If you're--"

"Keep it here," Frank finds himself saying. "It'll be safer. And if you're still studying it, then it's more use to you here, isn't it?"

Gerard blinks. "Are you sure? We might not know what it is, but it's obviously valuable." He attempts a smile. "Aren't you pirates only supposed to have one thing on your minds?"

"Look after it for us," Frank says firmly. "I mean it."

"But what if - I mean, if you don't..."

"If we don't what?"

Gerard shakes his head. "Never mind. Thank you, Frank. And - goodnight."

 

*

 

Ray and Gerard see them off the next morning, standing together on the dock and shrinking first to dolls, then matchstick figures, then finally disappearing altogether as the Caelifer's engine awakens and roars into action. Frank doesn't know exactly what Bob and Ray did to it, but it's running beautifully - there are no more ominous rumblings or squeakings or creakings, no metallic shrieks of protest when Bob pumps the bellows, no inexplicable clanking noises, no wheezing when the pistons start to warm up. In fact, Frank thinks, adjusting one of the menagerie of levers arrayed around him without even thinking, she feels like the ship he fell in love with. She feels like home.

He stands at the helm, looking out at the horizon while the wind runs its fingers through his hair and fills the sails. Bob is below decks, tending to the engine, while Mikey double-checks the course Frank plotted to the trading post of Slatepenny, about a week to the north-east if the fair weather holds. The sun is high in the sky and a brisk breeze fills the sails, hastening them towards their destination. The Wastelands lie unfurled below them like a great map while a pair of stormgulls wheel overhead, their strident cries floating down to the ship beneath them, and Frank smiles to himself, exhilaration igniting in his gut and growing to fill his chest. Two stormgulls seen together are supposed to bring good fortune, hence the pair of them tattooed on his hips.

Frank throws back his head and crows triumphantly as they soar up and away, free and wild and gloriously, incandescently alive.

 

*

 

Despite the worried mutterings about the queen's soldiers as well of those of Lady Autumn and Lord Morrison on the prowl, their expedition is largely uncomplicated and successful. They arrive at Slatepenny a day earlier than planned, thanks to the unexpectedly clement weather over the Wastelands and the spine of the northern foothills, and since the sun is already low and the shadows long, the traders are already packing up their wares for the night and Frank decrees that they've all earnt a night in a nice, comfortable inn. Unfortunately, Slatepenny's only inn is neither particularly nice nor particularly comfortable, but it's by no means the worst place any of them has slept. For supper, the sullen barmaid with the glass eye and the weathered face serves up a stew that pales miserably in comparison to Ray's, and Bob and Mikey take turns at guessing at what it might be made from, each suggestion more revolting than the last.

They all drink too much, dizzy with the joy of flight, and when a pretty girl touches Frank's arm and asks his name, he blinks stupidly at her before he realizes what she's really asking and tells her, not unkindly, that he isn't interested.

Bob and Mikey, meanwhile, are both laughing themselves sick.

"Every time," Frank groans, covering his eyes with his hands. "Always the girls. You'd think they'd know, somehow."

Not for the first time, he curses the particular quirk in his nature that renders him incapable of desiring women. He's never been ashamed of his inclinations, but they certainly make things much more difficult than they need to be. Same sex unions aren't entirely uncommon among the empire's lower echelons (nor behind the closed doors and straight-laced morals of the nobles of the Capital, if the tavern gossip is to be believed), but it's still something of an inconvenience when Frank feels ready to claw his way out of his own skin and the only cure is another body hot and hard against his own. A romantic he may be, despite everything, but he's a pragmatic man with the same needs as any other.

"Perhaps you need to change the way you dress," Bob suggests, perfectly deadpan while Mikey snorts unashamedly into his pint, hauling Frank out of his rather self-pitying reverie. "Maybe you'd have more luck with the boys."

"Oh, ha ha," Frank says dourly, but, secretly, he's eternally grateful to have shipmates as open-minded as Bob and Mikey. "Funny, Bryar. I find that remark to be in very poor taste. Make yourself scarce, you're no longer a part of my crew."

"As if," Bob says blandly, but he's smiling. "Come on, drink up."

The rest of the night passes easily, given their insalubrious surroundings. It was a mere handful of weeks ago that they did this last, but it feels rather distant, like something that happened a lifetime ago if not to someone else altogether. In Frank's opinion, all of the blame for this odd feeling should be laid squarely at the Sanctuary's scratched, pitted door. They weren't there long - the mere blink of an eye in the midst of all Frank's years, in fact - but the place has branded him, left a permanent mark somewhere inside him like nowhere else ever has.

They all retire to their rooms fairly soon afterwards, all tired and in need of a good night's sleep on a real bed. Or... well. As close to a real bed as the inn has to offer. The rooms are small and none too clean, but the sheets are soft and Frank is pleased to have the chance to avail himself of the hulking copper bathtub in the corner before bed. The layer of accumulated grime he wore like a second skin for years feels decidedly uncomfortable now, and he makes one or two undignified noises of pleasure as he washes it away.

He blames the Sanctuary for letting him get so soft.

 

*

 

From Slatepenny, they sail north to Quarrymount before setting a course over the foothills of the direling mountains back to the Sanctuary. It feels strange, somehow new and unsettling in a way Frank can't quite define.

Bob and Mikey seem to be in high spirits by the time they dock at the Sanctuary again, and they both set about securing the anchor ropes immediately. Frank, meanwhile, lingers over double-checking their precious cargo in the hold. He feels unaccountably anxious about setting foot in the Sanctuary again, for reasons he doesn't quite understand.

"Frank."

He jumps at the voice, both strange and familiar at once. "Gerard, how--"

"Bob left the rope ladder down, they're going to come back for the cargo." He steps towards Frank, the dappled sunlight spilling through the grate above casting strange shadows on his face.

Frank finds himself at an inexplicable loss for words. Gerard's expression is slightly disbelieving, but pleased.

"You came back," he says softly.

"Of course we came back," says Frank, nonplussed. "That was what we agreed, wasn't it?"

"I know. But I didn't think you would."

Before F can ask him what he means by that, Bob and Mikey clatter back down the stairs and into the hold with Ray in tow, all three of them laughing. Bob isn't given to laughter and even Mikey's smiles are rare, and Frank tucks the sound away in his head as a talisman against future storms.

"Frank," Ray beams, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good to see you. We can't thank you enough for this."

Frank chuckles and demurs Ray's thanks, then hoists a weighty sack of flour up into his arms and joins the others as they begin to unload the cargo.

 

*

 

The five of them share a meal that night, the kitchen full of warmth and laughter. Ray brought a barrel of ale up from the cellar earlier, and as the barrel empties and tankards are refilled, the very air seems to turn thick and soft and golden. Mikey is positively animated, chatting away to Gerard about the journey and their experiences at the trading posts. Bob and Ray are deep in conversation too, and Frank doesn't fail to notice the look in Bob's eyes. It's the same way Mikey looks at Bob sometimes when he doesn't think anyone else is watching. Frank warns himself sternly not to interfere, but the thought makes him feel a touch out of sorts. His heart is trying to tell him something, but he refuses to listen. It's probably nothing. More likely than not, he's just sickening again.

From across the pockmarked table, Gerard catches Frank's eye and smiles. It's the same smile he wore when Frank comforted him in the storm, the smile he wore earlier when he laid eyes on Frank again, and something clenches painfully in Frank's chest.

He's definitely sickening for something.

He raises his tankard to Gerard, and drains the last of his ale.

 

*

 

When Frank makes his way down to the kitchen the next morning, there's a nasty surprise waiting for him. Not only is the particularly crusty slice of bread he had his eye on lying half eaten on a chipped plate on the side, but there are two of the Queen's soldiers slumped at the table.

Frank stops dead in his tracks, his hand flying to his hip for the flintlock pistol that isn't there.

"Frank," says Ray sharply, looking up sharply from where he's building a fire in the grate. "They came here claiming Sanctuary just like you did. They have as much right to be here as you do. Corporal Smith and Private Urie accepted the same terms as everyone else. They trust us not to kill them in their sleep and we trust them not to sell us out."

Frank doesn't like it, but he's in no position to argue. To breathe the same air as soldiers without shooting at them goes against everything in him, but he grits his teeth and sits down at the other end of the table. The soldiers' crimson tabards are torn and stained dark in places, the imperial crests embroidered over their hearts barely visible. They're both young, both hollow-eyed and shell-shocked, and, loathe though Frank is to admit it, they certainly look as if they've been through the wars.

"So what happened to you?" Frank asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. Ray puts a plate of eggs and cured bacon down in front of him and gives him a warning look. Frank can't help but feel rather affronted; he was being civil and everything. He didn't even call them mangy dogs or insult their mothers.

"Betrayed," one of the soldiers says faintly. "By our-- we thought they were our friends. Brothers in arms."

"They turned on us, we barely got away," says the other, running one hand through his sandy hair. "They were working for Lady Autumn. When they found out that we didn't have what they wanted, they threw us off the ship and left us for dead."

Frank grunts, feigning disinterest, but he has an uncomfortable suspicion that he knows exactly what Lady Autumn's spies are looking for. He's sure she isn't the only noble seeking the stone, either, and although the Sanctuary is probably the safest place in the empire, it still makes him twitchy. He exchanges glances with Ray, who, by the look on his face, has had much the same thought.

 

*

 

Frank spends much of the next day alone, finding a steady stream of little chores to keep himself occupied. The soldiers are sleeping soundly in the sanatorium, Bob and Mikey are helping Ray in the kitchen and Gerard is buried in his greenhouse, still trying to unravel the stone's secrets.

"He's obsessed," Ray tells Frank wearily as he grinds the blade of a meat cleaver as long as Frank's forearm, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Has to be reminded to eat and it takes the earth and sky to make him stop and rest."

Frank takes this to mean that the Sanctuary's resident genius would rather not be disturbed by a nuisance of a sky pirate asking ignorant questions. Mikey and Bob appear to be locked in some sort of silent but ferocious battle over who can peel the most potatoes for dinner later, and Ray has moved on to flitting around the kitchen and absent-mindedly rearranging the contents of the cupboards, and Frank doesn't see that he's needed for anything much.

Instead, he passes the time by sweeping the Caelifer's decks and touching up the peeling gold lettering on her hull. It's enjoyably mindless, even the painstaking tracing of the indecipherable shapes of the letters. These tasks are second nature to Frank, a rhythm as steady and familiar as his own heartbeat, and when Bob comes to bring him inside for dinner, he's surprised to find that dusk has fallen around him, the sky streaked with indigo and the clouds edged with blazing gold.

Frank slips easily back into life at the Sanctuary, the steps as instantly comfortable as a worn-in pair of boots. He makes himself useful whenever he can, because years spent as the dogsbody of various different airships leave their mark. Old habits die hard, and it's not as if Frank minds. To him, waking up and not feeling tired is its own miniature revelation. He and his men are being fed well, for which Frank is deeply thankful. It's a relief, not having to worry about conjuring three square meals from the thin end of their provisions.

In fact, there's only one thing that's still gnawing at Frank, and it goes by the name of Gerard. He has a theory about the stone; of that Frank is certain. Gerard is spending his days either barricaded in his study or holed up in his greenhouse, working furiously. Frank only catches glimpses of him at the mealtimes when Ray has successfully managed to lure him into the kitchen, and even then it's almost impossible to extract anything coherent from him. He looks even more pallid than before, his eyes burning with an almost religious fervor, bolting down his food with positively indecent haste before vanishing again.

Frank doesn't know what to make of any part of the whole odd affair.

The soldiers, at least, seem to be more than happy to keep themselves to themselves. They rest in the Sanatorium while a harangued-looking Ray tends to them in Gerard's absence, and Frank can't help but feel slightly unnerved. He doesn't trust them, never did; in his experience, all soldiers are unscrupulous rats who are always looking for a fight.

 

*

 

When Frank wakes up the next morning, the threatening tickle in his throat has become a full-blown cottony tightness in his lungs, a thumping headache, and the deeply unpleasant feeling that his throat has been thoroughly sandpapered. He groans, and closes his eyes again. It isn't the first, second or even the third time this has happened. There's probably a medical term for it - Gerard would know - but as far as Frank is concerned, it's nothing but a recurring nuisance that's hounded him since he was a child. At least this is a better moment for it to strike than the last time, when they were deep in the empire's most dangerous skies, liable to be set upon by bandits at any time with a captain barely fit to leave his cabin, let alone fight.

He tries to take a deep, slow breath, but it catches somewhere inside him and emerges instead as a violent, hacking cough that makes his stomach cramp and his head pound and his throat sting miserably.

"Rats," he mutters hoarsely, struggling for air. After a few careful, shallow breaths, the world rights itself again and he cautiously levers himself upright. The very thought of bending down to pick up his clothes makes his head spin, so he steels himself and makes his way slowly downstairs in his nightshirt, pausing every few steps to lean heavily on the banister and catch his breath.

When he finally stumbles into the kitchen, Ray takes one look at him and informs him, with the look that brooks no argument, that he's going straight to the sanatorium. He takes one of Frank's arms while Bob takes the other, and, heedless of Frank's protestations, they frogmarch him back upstairs while Mikey sits and laughs into his coffee.

"Treacherous bastard," Frank wheezes, and Mikey raises his cup as if in a toast with a smug smile that Frank wants to punch.

"I'm going to get Gerard," says Ray firmly, helping Frank into a bed and laying a hand on his forehead. "You're not well."

Frank opens his mouth to complain that he's fine, thank you very much, that this happens all the time, that he just needs some sleep and he'll be right as rain again, but his words turn into another coughing fit. This one leaves him weak and gasping like a fish out of water, but he glowers at Bob to make his point. Ray has gone in search of Gerard, and Bob raises an eyebrow at Frank.

"You'd best not be thinking about doing anything foolish," he says, in a deceptively level voice.

"Or what?" Frank mumbles, sounding weak and parched even to his own ears.

"Or so help me, I will personally tie you to this bed," Bob growls. "So I'd stay there, if I were you."

 

*

 

Being an invalid in the Sanctuary, Frank has to admit, is infinitely better than being an invalid aboard a ship. Even in the sanatorium he has a comfortable bed, and the view into the greenhouse it affords is a pleasant distraction.

The real difference, though, goes by the name of Gerard. When Frank is too weak even to leave his bed in the sanatorium, Gerard is there. He tells Frank stories about ancient, monstrous gods that sleep under distant seas, and brings him strange-smelling teas sweetened with precious black honey that ease the painful tightness in Frank's lungs.

"Bronchitis," Gerard announces, closing the heavy, leatherbound tome in his lap with a dull thud. "That's what it is, I'm sure of it. You're a classic example, you have all the symptoms."

Frank grunts, unimpressed. "It's a pain in the backside, is what it is."

Under Gerard's watchful eye (and with the aid of his various herbal concoctions), Frank recovers from his bout of illness after only a few days. Normally, an attack of what Gerard calls bronchitis will confine him to his bed for a week or more. They should leave soon, he thinks, but it would probably be prudent to stay until he's sure he's in a fit state to fly. He's just taking sensible precautions, that's all.

He dedicates himself to exploring the Sanctuary, his instinct to roam beckoning him into the cramped passageways and dusty corners of the house. The house is like one of those infinitely complex box puzzles built by the eastern craftsmen, that are close to insoluble and composed of layers upon layers upon layers. From what Gerard told him about the place, Frank surmises that the Sanctuary's past guardians have added to the house as they saw fit, which would explain the jumbled mess of architectural styles. Frank finds himself liking it more and more with every hidden chamber and secret passage. Its tangled, chaotic nature gives it charm.

Mikey joins him on some of his exploratory jaunts, while Bob flatly refuses and instead spends his time animatedly discussing mechanics with Ray. Or, at any rate, Frank thinks that's what they do. Mechanics are not Frank's strong suit; they could be talking about almost anything. Not that it matters. It's good to see Bob happy. Contrary to popular belief, clockwork men are no more immune to emotion than those of flesh and blood.

In addition to the house, Frank often finds himself standing in the greenhouse without the faintest idea how he got there or what he'd intended to do. It makes sense, he supposes, that there are other ways into the greenhouse than the main doors. That must be the reason why. Once in the greenhouse, though, it always seems to be peculiarly difficult to leave again. The warmth, the luxuriant foliage in all its shades of green and the scents of earth and fruit and blossom have an oddly seductive effect on Frank, luring him in and drawing him down the narrow alleys between the trees. He can't read the little labels attached to the branches and growing out of the soil like mushrooms, but he sees plants he recognizes from all four corners of the empire - spindly, leafless things from the blistering eastern deserts, tall, dark firs from the mountains that dominate the northlands, graceful seedlings from the temperate west. It's a collection that the scientists in the Capital would do anything to get their hands on, and would pay a pretty penny for if the opportunity arose.

Often, his forays into this strange, private little world lead him to Gerard, pruning or watering or planting or making careful, minutely detailed drawings of an interesting new bloom. Frank feels like a guilty child who's strayed where he shouldn't have every time it happens, but Gerard never seems to mind. When he isn't inclined to talk, he spares Frank a smile before going back to his work, allowing a comfortable sort of silence to fall between them.

When Gerard isn't in the greenhouse, he's in his study, still working on the stone with a slightly disquieting sort of  fanaticism.

"I do have a theory," he says confidentially to Frank, when they meet on the stairs one evening and Frank asks him how his investigations are progressing. "I can't tell you what is yet, in case I'm right."

"In case you're wrong, you mean?" Frank says, thrusting his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep himself from removing the smear of ink on Gerard's cheek.

Gerard looks puzzled. "What an odd thing to say. It doesn't matter if I'm wrong, but if I'm right... _well_. You see?"

Frank nods gravely, trying very hard to look as if he understands perfectly. He doesn't. "You have ink on your face," he says, for want of anything more profound, and continues up the stairs to his room.

 

*

 

"Frank? Frank, wake up! _Frank!_ "

Frank jerks back into wakefulness like a fish caught on a hook and torn from the water. He sits up, groggy and clumsy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Gerard?" he mumbles, his own voice thick and rough with drowsiness. "What..."

"I've found it." Gerard's voice is a whisper on the edge of breaking into a laugh. "The stone, I've solved it. Frank, I've found the answer. Come _on_ , hurry!"

Frank stumbles from his bed, his head spinning as amazement begins to seep through the sleepy fog blanketing his mind. He's barefoot and tousled, creases from the pillowcase pressed into his cheeks and his nightshirt slipping off his shoulder as he chases Gerard through the door and towards the stairwell.

Gerard leads him straight to the greenhouse, one hand clutching Frank's arm and the other a lantern. The stone is cold under Frank's feet, but Gerard's hand is so warm. Frank's heart is kicking in his chest as Gerard guides him down a narrow passageway between the towering trees, their branches reaching up towards the glass ceiling. Both moons are out tonight, suspended in the inky sky like two fat, luminous pearls, and their soft, cool light casts strange shadows.

"Here, look," Gerard says breathlessly, setting the lantern down on one of the low stone tables. This one is bare but for the stone, perched atop a spindly-legged copper contraption, and--

"The plant, the one you showed me," Frank says. "But it's..." He leans in closer. The nondescript, unassuming little shrub - survivor the neglect which killed almost everything else in the greenhouse - is in bloom, its buds peeled back to reveal delicate white blossoms that fidget and sway like restlessly. The moonlight is spilling onto-- no, _through_ the stone, falling on the plant's flowers, and when Frank looks again, he notices that each one has a drop of clear liquid nestled like dew in its heart.

"I had it all wrong," Gerard is saying, his cheeks flushed with exhilaration as he runs his fingers through his hair. "The stone isn't the answer, it's just the key. It's a lens for the moonlight to pass through, and that makes the flowers open, see?"

"That stuff in the middle of the flowers," Frank breathes, a quivering revelation striking him square between the eyes. "It isn't...?" He thinks he knows the answer, but it's too fantastic, too unbelievable; he needs to hear Gerard say it.

"Eternal youth," Gerard murmurs, as if he hardly dares to believe it himself. "All those old stories, they were right after all. It's been here all along, just waiting for someone to bring the other piece back." He looks up at Frank, his eyes shining with euphoria. "And it's thanks to you," he says. "Frank, you were the one who made this happen."

The elation coursing hotly, wildly through Frank flares, so bright it almost blinds him, and before he knows what he's doing he's stumbling forward and pressing his mouth clumsily to Gerard's, the urge to laugh bubbling up in his gut. Gerard makes a low noise in his throat and kisses back, and--

Oh, Gods.

Gerard seems to come to his senses at the same instant as Frank does, and they spring apart as if they've been burned.

"We should probably, um..." Gerard clears his throat uncomfortably, avoiding Frank's eyes.

"Wake the others," Frank finishes, relieved that Gerard doesn't seem to expect him to explain himself. His heart is still pounding like a drum, so loud he's sure Gerard must be able to hear it. Gerard nods, still not looking Frank in the eye, and starts back down the narrow passageway towards the house. Frank picks up the lantern and follows him, feeling rather dazed. Almost unconsciously, he raises his other hand to his mouth and brushes his fingers over his lips as if they might be carrying some incriminating piece of evidence.

It was nothing, he tells himself firmly. Just the heat of the moment, nothing more and nothing less. And it's been months since Frank has had the chance to be intimate with another person; he can't be blamed for his body's indiscretions. Reassured, he pushes it from his mind. There are bigger things afoot.

Together, he and Gerard wake Bob, Ray and Mikey and tell them the news in quick-fire, jubilant whispers. Bob is deeply, genuinely impressed, while Mikey doesn't seem to have doubted for a moment that Gerard would succeed eventually and Ray makes a face of mingled delight and relief.

Despite the late hour, not one of them could go back to sleep if they tried, so they repair to the kitchen. Ray uncorks a dusty bottle of wine, announcing that he's been saving it for a special occasion - and, really, if this isn't a special occasion then Frank doesn't know what is. They pass it back and forth between them, taking turns to drink straight from the bottle. It's good, rich and smooth on Frank's tongue, and it goes to his head. Gerard is the center of attention, being congratulated and slapped on the back and told over and over that he's brilliant, and Frank watches as he begins to _glow_ with it. Gerard obviously isn't accustomed to so much praise being heaped upon him at once and he's blushing furiously, but a proud smile graces his face. He looks tired, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes ringed with shadow and his shirt half-untucked and his waistcoat buttoned crookedly, but, Gods, he's never looked more beautiful.

The others' voices become distant as the thought swells until there's no room for anything else in Frank's head.

Gerard _is_ beautiful, achingly so, and high-born and educated and charming and fiercely clever, and - the realization dawns on Frank slowly - he could still go home. He could return to the Capital, be greeted like the prodigal son, marry a rich girl and never have to worry about a thing for the rest of his days. Frank is scum, the lowest of the low. He was abandoned at birth, grew up feral in the docks, running errands and picking pockets. He's got no right to hope for anything.

The same instinct that tells a man to run from a burning building is telling Frank to leave, to escape this place with its false promises of home and the man who holds his heart.

Frank's good mood - second-hand delight in Gerard's success - ebbs away slowly, like water from cupped hands. Try as he might, he feels oddly disconnected from the others' celebrations, as if the rope tethering him to them has broken. He sits quietly at the table, trying to marshal these inconvenient feelings, but without success.

Gerard looks over at him and cracks a hopeful, lopsided smile, imperfect and all the lovelier for it, and something in Frank breaks. He can't bear this. He needs to get away from here. Not just from the warm, close kitchen, but from this place. To have to exist so painfully close to something he wants but cannot have is too much.

When he pushes his chair back and excuses himself, claiming (not entirely untruthfully) that he isn't feeling well, it's already too late for the mingled concern and disappointment in Gerard's face to sway him. His mind is made up. Tomorrow, he's taking his crew and his ship, and he's leaving.

 

*

 

Frank breaks the news at breakfast the next morning. The soldiers are upstairs, also preparing to set off later, and there's still something of the night's excitement in the air. The reaction to his announcement is, to say the least, muted.

"Leaving?" Mikey repeats, as if Frank suggested that they all jump into the ship and then set fire to it.

"Yes," Frank says, firmly. "We've imposed on these people's hospitality for long enough. We're in danger of outstaying our welcome as it is."

"Really, it's no trouble," Ray says, looking appalled at the very notion that Frank and his crew are a burden on the Sanctuary. "I know I'm not actually this place's Keeper, but--"

Gerard stops Ray with a gentle hand on his arm. "Don't," he says, determinedly avoiding Frank's eyes. Frank, for his part, struggles not to watch Gerard's mouth. Gerard sniffs and straightens up in his seat, visibly trying to pull himself together. "Of course we won't keep you here against your will. I'm sure you have... business to attend to. And you'll always be welcome here should you choose to come back."

"We're very grateful for everything you've done for us," Frank says stiffly, finding the pleasantries easier to cough up than the truth. "We won't forget your kindness."

It's certainly not the only thing Frank won't be forgetting for some time, if the bone-deep ache already settling over him is anything to go by. Bob mutters a gruff agreement, and reaches across the pockmarked table to shake Ray's hand.

"You can keep the stone," Frank says abruptly. "It belongs here, it's no good to us."

"Thank you," says Gerard, in an odd, carefully neutral voice that Frank has never heard him use before, still refusing to look Frank in the eye. "That's... good of you. You'll have to excuse me, my sparrow grass seedlings need watering. If anyone wants me, I'll be in the greenhouse." He makes a great show of piling his cutlery and his mug onto his plate, leaving half of his food uneaten and his coffee almost untouched. Having tipped his leftovers almost hurriedly into the fire in the grate, he leaves the kitchen with an inscrutable expression on his face.

Frank refuses to feel guilty.

 

*

 

Bob corners Frank later that morning as he's searching his room for any stray belongings.

"Bob," Frank says, straightening up and steeling himself. "Goodness, what a face. You look like you're walking to the gallows, what's the matter with you?"

"I think you're better suited to answer that than I am, don't you?" Bob rumbles, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Frank, in the name of all the gods, what do you think you're doing?"

"I don't know what you mean," answers Frank immediately, with a defiant tilt of his chin. "We never intended to stay. We've been cooling our heels for too long already."

Bob raises an eyebrow, his eyes boring into Frank as if that alone will enable him to see into Frank's head. Frank swallows, but stands his ground.

"They're happy to have us here," Bob tries again. "And it's done us good, you can't argue with that. I've learnt a lot from Ray, it's good for Mikey to see his brother, and you--"

"Yes, yes," Frank interrupts quickly. "I'm not denying that, but... but we're _ethernauts_ , Bob. We're pirates, aren't we? Out there, it's what we do. Here, we're just house guests." And then Frank plays his ace, shifting forward and laying one hand on Bob's arm. He can feel the intricate mechanism that keeps Bob alive ticking away under his skin. "The Robert Nathaniel Bryar I knew would have been losing his mind by now, cooped up here," he says softly. "Bob, it's for the best."

Bob grunts, still not looking convinced, but it's good enough. Frank slaps him on the shoulder. "Come on," he says. "The supply checks won't finish themselves."

 

*

 

They set sail later that morning, the skies as sullen as Bob and Mikey's faces. This is a far cry from the last time they left the Sanctuary. Gerard said his goodbyes on the front stairs of the house, hugging Mikey tightly and clapping Ray on the shoulder before shaking Frank briskly by the hand without meeting his eyes for a moment. After that he turned abruptly and vanished back into the house, and Frank tries to purge his memory of the desperately unhappy look on Gerard's face. It's for the best, he tells himself, pulling his heavy overcoat around his shoulders as a chill breeze whistles through the rigging. His hands feel cold and stiff on the Caelifer's helm already, but he sets his jaw and tries to empty his mind, dissolving himself and becoming part of the ship. This is the thing he loves better than anything else, he should be enjoying it. He supposes that turning his back on the comfort they've all been enjoying for the past few weeks is what's eating him, and he'll get used to this life again soon enough. 

Frank hurls himself back into his old life like a child skimming a stone across water, determined to make it fit him like it once did again. Bob and Mikey are concerned, he knows, but he pretends not to have noticed. He'll be fine, they've no need to worry about him. He's always fine. So far, nothing he's suffered has been able to sink him, and the idea that this should be the thing to do it is laughable.

 

*

 

Frank drinks. Not a lot, he doesn't think, or at least no more than he needs to. It's just that when there's a pint or two of grog and a tot of rum thickening his blood, he feels like himself again. His old self, that is, his _real_ self; not the domesticated shadow he's become of late. Not the self whose heart skipped for a pretty boy and who grew rather too fond of soft beds and good food. If this is what it's going to take to reignite the fire in his belly, then that's what he'll do. He makes the odd mistake, of course, but doesn't everyone? It doesn't matter. Maybe they're nearly caught once or twice, but what of it? Their raids are growing more daring than ever before, inching closer and closer to the rich, fatty heart of the Capital, and the spoils of their exploits are more than sufficient for them to celebrate in style when they make port.

Bob and Mikey aren't happy, though, and Frank doesn't quite know why. They must understand why Frank couldn't stay another day, and they're doing what they always did again. This is what they do best, after all. Each one of them is a finely-tuned part of a single, beautiful machine, working together seamlessly. They're the best crew in the skies; why aren't they happy? Frank wants to help, but he has rather more pragmatic things to worry about. Not getting them all killed or captured by Imperial soldiers, for a start.

Frank's body, however, soon starts to rebel against the abuse to which he's been subjecting it of late. _No_ , it says. Too many late nights, too many mornings waking up with gritty eyes and a pounding headache. _You aren't as young as you used to be_. It starts, as it always does, with an irritating tickle in the back of his throat, and he ignores it resolutely. If he isn't dying, he doesn't see any reason why it should even slow him down.

Bob knows, because Bob knows everything, and Bob obviously tells Mikey, because Mikey is curiously persuasive for a man of so few words. He's been even quieter than usual lately, Frank thinks. He wouldn't swear to it, but there are moments when he wonders why. Frank knows they're concerned for him, but, as much as he loves them both, he feels that their worry is misplaced. Frank will be fine. He always is.

"'M fine," he tells them both, emphatically. They're holed up in a dingy dockside tavern, due to leave early in the morning for another foray into the Capital's outskirts, and it's too late to sleep now. He'll stay awake until it's time for them to set sail, that way he'll have more than enough time to sober up. He sniffs, and swallows. Something in his throat sticks and he coughs a nasty, rattling cough that leaves him out of breath with his eyes watering. "Fine. Really. Don't worry about me." Actually, his head is starting to feel strangely heavy. Perhaps he should get some shut-eye after all.

"You are _not_ ," Mikey says sharply, and Frank looks at him, surprised. That isn't like Mikey at all. He normally expresses his annoyance or disapproval through a raised eyebrow or a curled lip, or sometimes just a certain look. This, though, is something new.

"What?" Frank asks, affecting an air of imperious disdain and attempting to draw himself up.

"You're sick and you're drunk," snaps Mikey. "You need sleep and medicine. I won't lose another brother to drink."

Frank closes his mouth, an unpleasant mixture of guilt and unease beginning to ferment in his gut. Mikey is right, this is the way Gerard went. Although Frank still finds that hard to believe, Gerard is so--

He stops himself mid-thought. Nothing good can come of those thoughts, he tells himself severely. Leave well enough alone, for that way madness lies.

"I'm perfectly healthy," he says instead, affronted. "'M in - in fine fettle, I think you'll find."

Bob makes a decidedly skeptical noise. "Hmm. And this... _fine fettle_ of yours, that's the reason why you're that greenish color?"

"No," Frank says, with dignity. "That would be the rum." His stomach turns queasily. "In fact, I feel so good, I think we should leave right now. Who's with me?" He stands, his chair legs scraping against the floor. His head swims, and Bob and Mikey jump up to catch him as he sways.

"I'm fine. Leave me 'lone, you're embarrassing me," he slurs stubbornly.

And then everything goes black.

 

*

 

Frank's fever dreams have always been particularly odd, and these are no exception. He dreams of forests with colossal trees and leaves as long as he is tall, full of things with teeth and great, terrible paws. He dreams of bright cooking fires and thunderstorms and open skies the size of china plates, all tangled up together in new, strange ways. There are moments when he thinks he hears fragments of Bob and Mikey's voices and even the creaking and clanking of the Caelifer herself, but then the mists of unconsciousness close over him again and he knows no more.

When at long, long last, he breaks the surface of consciousness again, he sees a ring of faces crowded around him. Bob, Ray, Mikey, even Gerard. His friends, he thinks. To a man, they look hugely relieved, grinning and slapping each other on the backs and telling Frank how good it is to have him back, how worried they've been.

He licks his lips. His mouth is parched, and his throat feels as if a gorse bush has taken root in his stomach and tried to push its way up and out of his mouth. "What happened?" he croaks.

"You weren't well," Bob says sternly, back to his usual self already.

"Bob and Mikey brought you back here," adds Ray, and Frank realizes with a sinking feeling that yes, he is indeed back in the sanatorium.

"You didn't have to do that," he mumbles, studiously avoiding Gerard's eyes. "A good night's sleep, that's all I needed. I would have been right as rain in no time."

"Gerard has spent the past week nursing you back to health, you feeble little milksop," retorts Bob, raising an eyebrow. "The Gods only know why."

Gerard, Frank notices, is blushing furiously. Frank feels like the absolute lowest of the low. "Thank you," he says stiffly. "I, um. Yes."

"Think nothing of it," Gerard says. He looks disheartened suddenly, as if all the fire in him has been doused. He conjures up a smile when Mikey looks over at him, but Frank knows what he saw. His insides feel like they're being tied up in knots.

"We'll leave you to sleep," Gerard says. "You can join us when you've rested."

Frank nods, and tries not to think about the strange, sad look on Gerard's face. Frank doesn't know what Gerard has to be unhappy about. What Frank did was only sensible.

"There's bread and some water over there if you want something," Ray adds cheerfully. "You'll be hungry, you haven't eaten in days. And you know where the kitchen is if you want more."

Frank thanks him gratefully, his stomach rumbling already. He feels terrible. They didn't have to do this, any of them. He would have managed on his own, in the end, just like always. He opens his mouth to tell them so, but it's too late. They're all scurrying away and out of the sanatorium, and Frank swears as he reaches for the pitcher of water and the plate of fresh bread. Well, he reasons. He's going to need his strength.

In fact, he sleeps the rest of the day away - much to his annoyance, it does rather feel like a waste of time. Ray comes back with more food in the evening, and tells him while he eats that Bob and Mikey have been re-allotted their old rooms. Gerard, having made himself scarce, is apparently in his greenhouse, conducting further tests on the life plant and harvesting the elixir it yields. In fact, almost everything is just the way it was before, and a strange, nameless feeling begins to steal over Frank. It's unfamiliar and odd and not wholly unpleasant. Frank distrusts it on principle. Ray laughs when Frank says as much aloud, and starts back towards the kitchen.

"You're not accustomed to coming home, that's all," he says over his shoulder as he goes, leaving Frank feeling somewhat wrongfooted. But, Frank thinks, perhaps he's right. Either that or Frank's stomach still hasn't settled.

It's probably just his stomach.

The next morning, Frank finds himself feeling much better. He's more than well enough to get up and dress himself, then make his way downstairs to the kitchen to forage for sustenance. Lazing around in a bed being ministered to is surprisingly hungry work.

The kitchen is half full of people, all of them with familiar faces and smiles and heavily laden plates, and Frank feels another pang of that odd feeling. Gerard is missing. He must be avoiding Frank, hiding in the luxuriant depths of his greenhouse, surrounded by his plants. Frank pretends he hasn't noticed, and starts to pile food onto a chipped china plate.

"What happened to the soldiers?" Frank asks, pleased to see the kitchen free of imperial uniforms. "Nothing nasty, I trust," he adds hopefully.

Ray snorts, rolling his eyes at Frank's thinly-veiled hostility. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no. They're long gone now, but I gave them your regards."

"Oh. Well, you can't blame a man for trying. Here's hoping their engine doesn't catch fire while they're in the air." He takes the plate of eggs and ham Ray hands him and sits down. "But," he says, around a large mouthful, "How do you know they won't sell you down the river? They could make a pretty penny if they told the traders' guilds where to find you. They'd love to get their hands on you for helping pirates, you'd never see the light of day again."

Ray shrugs. "How do we know you won't do the same?"

Frank chokes on his coffee. "I _beg_ your pardon?" he sputters, brimming with righteous indignation. Scum he may be, but even he wouldn't sink that low.

"Not you _personally_ ," Ray assures him hastily. "Anyone. We operate on... faith in human nature, I suppose."

Frank looks at him blankly, and Ray cracks a wry smile.

"Think about it this way - not asking for payment is our incentive for you to keep quiet. We're buying your silence, if you will."

"Oh," says Frank, trying valiantly to look solemn and pensive as he shovels another forkload of egg into his mouth. That makes more sense, he supposes, and the Sanctuary has obviously lasted until now on these tenets.

"Don't fill yourself up now," Ray says lightly, and Frank looks up at him questioningly with his mouth rather too full of food.

"Ray's been plotting," says Bob darkly. "Some sort of celebratory business, I believe."

Ray tuts, and flicks the rag he's using to dry the clean plates at Bob's head. "I'm glad you've got your appetite back," he says, eyeing the small mountain of food on Frank's plate. Frank beams unapologetically at him through another large mouthful, and Bob groans.

"You're revolting," Mikey informs him.

"You're making me feel unwell," Bob agrees. "Were you born in a barn, Iero?"

Frank shrugs, and tears a chunk off his huge piece of bread with his teeth. "I wouldn't know. Perhaps. I think you're being very discourteous, though, Bryar. Insubordinate, even."

Bob kicks him under the table and Ray pats him sympathetically on the shoulder while Mikey smirks and sips at his unsweetened coffee.

Home, Frank thinks again. Maybe this is it after all.

Dinner turns out to be a celebration to rival that of Gerard's discovery on that fateful night. Frank isn't entirely sure how to feel about this. It's flattering, certainly, but, no matter how much he might like it to be, this isn't their home. It feels like something akin to a stone around his neck, dragging him back to this place, and he doesn't like that at all. Gerard can't seem to stop smiling, and, halfway through the excellent roasted potatoes, Frank gives himself a shake. So he can't have Gerard; that's not the end of the world. People have survived worse. _Frank_ has survived worse. Gerard is a good man and a good friend, and deserves Frank's courtesy and his respect. And, setting that aside, Frank has to admit that it feels good to be back. Safe, and comfortable. And the food doesn't hurt.

The night wears on, and the food gradually disappears as tankards of good ale are drained and refilled. Frank notices Bob's disapproving glance and tries to resist, but Gerard really is sitting very close to him, and he thinks that if ever there was a moment for a drink, this is it. The fat beeswax candles burn lower and lower, and the merriment in the air slowly dulls to a warm, soft glow. Ray potters around and drifts in and out of the flow of conversation, clucking good-naturedly as he gathers in the empty plates and maneuvers them into the great basin on the counter.

"Thank you," Frank tells him, very earnestly, laying a hand on his arm and looking up at his wryly amused face.

"Oh? What for?"

Frank considers this for a long moment. What indeed? "I couldn't say," he pronounces, eventually. "But thank you."

Ray chuckles and ruffles Frank's hair, and, out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Gerard look away abruptly and start a conversation with Bob about cabbages. Frank's good mood dims suddenly, as if the flame in him has reached the bottom of its wick. Gerard is excruciatingly lovely and completely impossible. Frank had hoped that his silly attachment would perish with some healthy separation, but it seems that Lady Luck has found a new plaything. He sighs, and takes a long draught of his ale.

Bob yawns and stretches, a string of metallic clicks sounding as he does so. "I hear my bed calling," he says, gruffly, pushing his chair back from the table. "Goodnight, gentlemen. Frank."

Frank makes a very impolite hand gesture at Bob, who cracks a fond smile. "You're a troublesome little rat, to be sure," he says, and slaps Frank on the back. "But it's good to have you back. Sleep well." And he tramps out of the kitchen and into the hallway, somehow leaving the room much quieter than before.

Ray slides the last of the plates into the pail of water, dries his hands on his apron and consults his pocketwatch. "It's getting late," he says, stifling a yawn of his own. "I think I should retire as well. Goodnight, men. Frank, help yourself to anything you want if you're still hungry."

"I will," Frank reassures him heartily, and Ray smiles a weary smile before untying his apron, draping it neatly over the back of a chair and disappearing in Bob's footsteps. Frank looks around for Mikey, who seems to need more sleep than most. He must be tired.

"He went to bed half an hour ago," Gerard says, as if reading Frank's mind. "He didn't want you to feel bad."

Frank snorts and shakes his head. "Your brother is... something very special," he says dryly, and Gerard makes a noise of agreement around a last morsel of bread. The candles are burning low now, guttering and casting golden light that flutters skittishly like the wings of moths. It strikes Frank - suddenly, and with great force - that he and Gerard are the only ones left in the kitchen. There's altogether too much wine quickening Frank's blood and loosening his tongue, and, distantly, he thinks that this isn't safe. Gerard is watching him with an odd expression on his face that Frank isn't quite sober enough to read. They sit there as they are for a few long moments, the silence not so much strained as loaded with things unsaid, crowded just below the surface like dead leaves in a frozen lake.

Gerard is the one who breaks the ice. "I missed you," he says, softly. "Isn't that strange?"

"Is it?" Frank hazards, treading as lightly as he can and searching Gerard's face for some sort of cue, any outward sign as to what might be going on inside his head.

"Very," Gerard replies, his tone almost grave but his smile wan and crooked and captivatingly, imperfectly lovely. "I'd start to talk to you before I realized you weren't here. I'd go looking for you without thinking that I'd never find you. I'd catch myself wondering what you were doing at that moment, what you saw when you woke up that morning. And then when I slept I'd find you walking my dreams."

Reeling slightly from these unexpected revelations, Frank gropes for an appropriate response and fails to conjure up anything remotely suitable. "I missed you too," he says, his throat suddenly feeling inexplicably tight. Not for the first time, he curses his rough manners and his clumsiness with words. He feels oddly young again, as if his body doesn't fit him properly and his mind is shaking itself apart. "And I'm sorry. For..." he clears his throat uncomfortably and averts his eyes from Gerard's. "For running away."

"Don't be."

"I-- why not?"

"Birds aren't meant to be caged," Gerard says softly. His eyes are dark, and too deep for Frank to read. "You weren't mine to keep, I understand that. You had your wings, why would you stay? You must have been bored to tears here, after all the things you've seen. All the skies you've sailed." A bitter note begins to creep into his voice, tempered by a wry smile of resignation. "You've done so much already. All the people you must have met, people like _you_. What could you ever have wanted with a - a bookish coward who prefers plants to people?"

The silence is thick, roaring in Frank's ears and gathering stiflingly in his lungs while he struggles to understand.

"You--" he says. His mouth is dry. "You wanted _me?_ "

Gerard huffs a laugh and looks away, but he's not quite quick enough, and Frank sees the hurt on his face. "Yes," he says, still not meeting Frank's eyes. "I did. I still do. Gods, Frank, how could I not?"

"Because I'm scum," Frank blurts, before he can stop himself. "Because even my mother didn't want me. Because I grew up picking pockets on the docks and I signed up as a ship's cabin boy as soon as they'd take me. Because I had to choose my own name and my own birthday and you--"

"But you're not," Gerard says, meeting Frank's eyes with a look that cuts right through him. "You're not. Never that."

And that's it. Frank is gone, he's falling, he's surging forward and kissing Gerard greedily, desperately, and Gerard is kissing back. Frank makes a thin, hungry noise into Gerard's mouth, curling one hand around the back of Gerard's neck, and grabs Gerard's collar with the other. After so much time spent waiting and wishing, Gerard's mouth on Frank's almost undoes him completely. Gerard is so warm, smooth-skinned but for the whisper of stubble on his face, his body hot and pliant under Frank's hands. Frank skims his fingers up Gerard's side, and Gerard shivers and pulls him closer.

Frank is more than happy to relinquish his self-control and let himself sink completely into the way Gerard feels, the way he tastes, the sound of his breath hitching. If this is a dream - and it has to be, Frank thinks wildly, it's far too good to be real - then, gods, he's going to enjoy it while it lasts. He pulls Gerard into his arms, one hand splayed against Gerard's broad shoulders and one on the small of his back. Frank catches Gerard's lower lip between his teeth and Gerard makes a high, thin noise.

"Frank," he says indistinctly, hoarse and breathless against Frank's mouth. "Frank, I need--"

"What?" Frank is too drunk on the giddy elation of it all to put together a more eloquent response. He pulls back to see Gerard's hair tousled and his eyes almost feverishly bright, flushed and hot and wanting and, gods, so beautiful. "What is it?"

Gerard makes a noise of displeasure and hauls Frank back in. Frank stumbles, clumsy and punch-drunk, but Gerard catches him.

"Would it be too... too forward to ask you take me to bed?" he breathes, his eyes darting anxiously between Frank's own eyes and his mouth.

"Almost certainly," Frank answers, seizing Gerard's hand and feeling a broad grin unfolding across his face. "Come on."

They make their way gracelessly out of the kitchen, tripping and stumbling and laughing, their progress rather hampered by the fact that they can't seem to keep their hands off each other. When they finally reach the stairwell Frank can't resist for a moment longer and pulls Gerard close, kissing him greedily with a low noise of satisfaction. He feels Gerard shiver with anticipation under his hands and an answering shiver rattles up his own spine, heady and intoxicating.

"Bedroom," Gerard laughs against Frank's neck. "Imagine the scandal if we were caught."

Laughter bubbles up in Frank's throat again, effervescent and almost hysterical. "How awful," he says, tugging Gerard up the stairs. "The shame."

They climb the stairs two at a time, the protests of the banisters echoing up and down the walls as they fall about, both panting for air and clutching at each other. Frank's heart is kicking in his chest when they finally emerge into the hallway, and Gerard pauses to back him up against a wall and kiss him messily before dragging him away again. Gerard leads him up another narrow staircase and down to the end of another hallway, where a door stands ajar. He looks over his shoulder at Frank one last time before he pushes it open, as if he needs to reassure himself that Frank is still behind him.

The briefest glimpse is enough to show Frank that the room is large but cluttered with all manner of things crowded in under a steeply sloping ceiling - Gerard's bedchamber, there can be no doubt. A glimpse is all he gets, though, because Gerard turns back and captures Frank's mouth again. Frank, unfortunately, ducks his head to the same side as Gerard, bringing their foreheads together sharply.

"Ow!" Gerard almost yelps, startled, jumping back with such a look of puzzlement on his face that Frank starts to laugh again.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes out between peals of helpless laughter. "I don't know why-- oh, gods..."

"Quite alright," Gerard gasps, his own voice shaking with slightly hysterical mirth.

"Let me take your mind off it," Frank says, only half-joking, and dips his head to mouth at Gerard's neck, feeling him shiver when Frank's teeth graze his skin.

"Remarkable." There's an altogether different kind of tremble in Gerard's voice now, and something tightens in Frank's gut. "Completely healed."

"Here," Frank murmurs, guiding Gerard somewhat clumsily back towards the bed in the corner. Gerard goes down easily, landing on the edge of the mattress with his thighs spread invitingly, flushed and wanting, and Frank swallows. Gerard looks down and brings his knees back together, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wouldn't want you to..."

"Ssh." Frank presses a finger to Gerard's lips, stopping his babbling. He wants to tell Gerard that there's nothing he could do to make Frank want him less, but the words don't come. Frank was never good with words. Instead, he clambers into Gerard's lap and works his hands into Gerard's hair, kissing him deeply. Gerard is fidgety, uncertain but eager, his hands fluttering between Frank's shoulders, his neck, his hips. Frank has never been touched like this before, has never been _wanted_ like this, and it's going to his head.

Emboldened, Frank slides one hand between their bodies and starts to work at the buttons on Gerard's waistcoat. They're small and tricky, though, and Frank breaks the kiss to swear and wrestle with the stubborn little things. Gerard huffs a laugh and leans back to give Frank more light. Frank gives it a sharp tug, but to no avail, and a low growl escapes him. He looks up to apologies, but Gerard's eyes are dark with such raw need that Frank draws in an involuntary gasp. He finally gets the button undone and starts on the next one, Gerard's hands playing distractingly over his arms, his fingers dancing over Frank's colorful tattoos.

"I dreamed about you, you know," he says abruptly, as if he hadn't meant to say it at all and it slipped out without his permission.

"Oh?" Frank's mouth is dry, his heart beating loudly in his ears.

Gerard nods, as if he too is having trouble finding the right words. "I mean-- while you were away, yes, but the first time was the day I first laid eyes on you."

"I held a knife to your throat and threatened to throw you to your death," Frank says, nonplussed, pausing in his assault on the next button down.

"I know," Gerard says, running his fingers through Frank's tangled hair as if he just can't quite bring himself to stop touching Frank. "Isn't that funny? No, I dreamed about a... a beautiful, dark-eyed pirate boy with art all over his skin."

Frank's heart skips a beat as he realizes he's glimpsing himself through Gerard's eyes. He surges forwards to kiss Gerard again, attacking his buttons with renewed determination. Frank gives Gerard's shoulders a gentle push and Gerard lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, leaving Frank straddling his hips. Frank helps him out of his waistcoat and starts to unbutton his shirt, his hands shaking. He's acutely aware of the weight of Gerard's gaze on him as he peels back the shirt, Gerard's skin flushed pink in the lamplight. He runs his hands down Gerard's sides, wondering, and Gerard squirms underneath him.

"Your turn," Gerard says, cracking a lopsided smile. "Or I'll start putting my clothes back on."

Frank hurries to comply, suddenly feeling self-conscious as Gerard watches him undress.

"Amazing," murmurs Gerard, skimming his fingers over the ink on Frank's chest with the gentlest of butterfly touches, as if he's afraid that Frank might flutter away again at any moment. "You'll have to tell me what it all means sometime. It's-- you're incredible, Frank."

The sincerity in Gerard's voice is so pure that it seems to burn something in Frank's chest, and Frank has to kiss him again, pinning him bodily to the mattress. Gerard feels so good against him, all hot skin and ragged breaths. There's a faintly surreal quality to it all, and Frank is still half-expecting to wake up panting and desperate with a heavy lump of disappointment in his stomach.

Then, Gerard tips his head back, baring his throat to Frank, and all of Frank's thoughts scatter like marbles. Frank makes an animal, hungry noise and presses his mouth to the soft curve where Gerard's neck meets his shoulder, licking and biting as Gerard whimpers. He rolls his hips up against Frank, his cock hard against Frank's thigh, and Frank groans. His own cock is throbbing almost painfully, and several undignified moments of struggling ensue as they both attempt to free themselves from their trousers.

Gerard's skin is soft and milky-white and unmarked and Frank can't help himself, rubbing up against him and letting out a faint whine.

"Frank," Gerard says breathlessly, letting his head fall back onto the patchwork covers. He seems to be having trouble meeting Frank's eyes. "Frank, I want you in-- inside me." His voice breaks and he looks young and self-conscious, a delicate pink flush coloring his pale cheeks.

"I thought you'd never ask," Frank says indistinctly, his mouth pressed to the hollow between Gerard's collarbones. "Gods, if you could see yourself. Do you have any...?"

"Nightstand," Gerard says, his hips rocking up against Frank's seemingly of their own volition, and his breath hitches. "Top drawer."

Frank sits up on his knees and reaches over, rummaging through the drawer until his fingers find a small, unlabeled jar. The lid is stuck and he curses and pulls at it, too desperate to maintain any pretense of being a gentleman. When it finally gives, he looks up to see that Gerard has shed the rest of his clothes, and the sight of him sprawled out on the bed knocks the breath from Frank's lungs. Gerard is almost luminously pale, lit by the feathery moonlight streaming through the windows, biting his lip nervously. Frank looks at him with something approaching wonder, trying to fix the picture in his memory. He aches to press his face into the softness of Gerard's belly, his thighs, but he restrains himself. Not now.

Frank wants to say something, tell him how beautiful he is, but the words won't come. Although, judging by Gerard's shy smile, Frank's expression says more than enough.

He leans down and kisses Gerard again, bracing one hand next to Gerard's head and skimming the other one gently down his body. His hand settles on Gerard's hip, and he drops a kiss on Gerard's forehead before dropping down, brushing his lips over Gerard's collarbones, his chest, the slight swell of his belly, his hipbones. His skin is hot to the touch, and once or twice he gasps and twitches. Frank could do this for hours, exploring Gerard and finding the places that send his heart kicking.

"Here," Frank murmurs, gently spreading Gerard's thighs. He looks up to see Gerard watching him, dark-eyed and desperate, and he shivers. He reaches for the pot he found in the nightstand and dips his fingers in before slipping them between Gerard's legs.

"I-- _oh_ ," Gerard gasps as Frank sinks a fingertip into him.

"Is this your first time?" Frank asks, rubbing small circles over Gerard's hip with his other hand. Gerard shakes his head, then inhales sharply. Frank works his finger deeper inside Gerard, taking his time, and ducks his head to take Gerard's cock into his mouth. It's been some time since Frank last did this, but from the breathy little noises Gerard is making, he hasn't lost his touch.

He sinks down, taking Gerard deeper and Gerard lets out a low, throaty moan, his hands fluttering around Frank's head as if he isn't sure what to do with them. Frank's mouth is stretched around Gerard's cock, and it somehow feels much better than he remembers. Perhaps it's because of Gerard, whimpering and squirming under Frank. The taste of him and the warmth and the weight in Frank's mouth form a heady cocktail, saturating his every sense until Gerard is all he knows.

While Frank licks and sucks, he continues to work his fingers into Gerard, eliciting sudden gasps and moans that interrupt the flow of words tumbling from his mouth. He's distantly aware that Gerard is talking, but Frank is in no state to try to decipher what he's saying.

"Frank, _Frank_ \-- stop, I'll..." Gerard tugs at Frank's hair and his hips stutter upwards, and Frank pulls off.

"Enough?" he says, pressing a kiss to Gerard's hip, and Gerard nods frantically. Frank sits up, aware of Gerard's eyes raking over the ink on his skin. Gerard's face is flushed, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead and he's breathing hard, and Frank finds himself kissing him again before he even knows what he's doing. He can feel Gerard smiling against his mouth, his hands curling around the back of Frank's neck, and Frank thinks, this is it. This is the thing that makes everything else alright. _I love you_ , he realizes, his heart skipping and giddy laughter welling up in his belly. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. _I'm in love with you._

"How do you want...?" he starts, sitting back and reaching for the little pot.

"Like this," Gerard answers at once, shifting his hips slightly and looking up at Frank, biting his lip. "I want... I want to see your face."

Frank almost stops breathing as he pulls Gerard towards him, hitching Gerard's thighs up and settling himself between them. Slowly, slowly, he takes himself in hand and sinks into Gerard.

"Oh, Gods," he gasps. His entire world has narrowed down to nothing but Gerard's body, hot and close, filling up all of his senses. Gerard mewls, his head falling back and his brows drawing together as he tries to work Frank deeper inside him. He makes a raw, wordless noise of encouragement and Frank's hips jerk forward of their own volition. He's buried up to the hilt in Gerard, Gerard spread out and whimpering underneath him.

"Frank, you're--" Gerard says, before stopping, as if he's holding himself back from saying more.

"What? Gerard, tell me," presses Frank, rolling his hips forward, his eyes fluttering between the sight of his cock being swallowed by Gerard's body and Gerard's wet, open mouth. He feels so, so good, balanced on the edge of bliss and about to tumble over, and he wants so badly for Gerard to feel the same.

"I feel-- _oh_ , Gods, I'm so full," Gerard chokes out, a sob tugging at the edge of his voice.

Frank tries to stop, but his body has taken leave of his mind. "Am I hurting you?"

Gerard shakes his head emphatically. "No," he moans. "Don't stop. It's... ngh, _you're_ perfect."

Frank's rhythm is starting to slip already, his hair hanging down in tangles around his face, his skin sliding against Gerard's. He's talking, he realizes distantly, his mouth running as he tells Gerard how lovely he is, how good he feels, how he, Frank, can hardly believe his luck. He reaches down and wraps one hand around Gerard's cock, stroking in time with his increasingly erratic thrusts. Frank can feel his release curling low and hot in his gut, and from the high, breathy noises Gerard is making, he isn't far from his either. He's gasping and mewling, making the most delicious noises as Frank strokes him, and then, suddenly, he lets out a broken, ecstatic cry as his entire body tightens around Frank and his release spills hotly over Frank's hand. Frank doesn't pull his hand away but keeps working it over Gerard's length, the slide sweet and easy. Gerard is whimpering, his skin hot and over-sensitive as Frank moans and babbles nonsense, his hips jerking.

Gerard puts one hand up and curls it around the back of Frank's neck, forcing Frank to look him in the eye, and wraps one leg around Frank's back to pull him in, and Frank can't hold on any longer. He groans, a rough, drawn-out noise that sounds like it was torn right out of his heart, and buries himself in Gerard one last time, warmth blossoming under every inch of his skin and his head spinning while his hips stutter weakly forwards, echoing the force of his completion.

"You," Frank says intelligently, once he's eased himself back out of Gerard and slumped down, spent, on top of him. "That." His brain seems to have melted to slop.

Gerard makes a faint, wordless noise of agreement and wraps his arms around Frank, pulling him close. They lie there for a long moment, their limbs tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin. Frank feels limp, as if someone has stolen all his bones, and he's never felt so good. He's floating, weightless, Gerard warm and close and, if only for now, _Frank's_.

"I wished for this," Gerard says quietly. "Every day since you left."

Frank's mouth is dry. "For-- for what?"

Gerard presses a chaste, almost reverent kiss to Frank's palm and gently folds his fingers inwards, like the petals of a flower closing at sunset. "For your heartlines to bring you home."

Frank could swear he feels his heart stop, just for a moment.

Gerard's smile falters. "And now you think I'm a sentimental fool."

"No!" says Frank quickly. "No, no." He dips his head to kiss Gerard again, not stopping until he parts his lips to let Frank in. "I just _... home_."

"You'll have a home for as long as you want it," Gerard says seriously. He licks his lips. "Me," he amends, more quietly. "I... as long as you want _me_."

"Always," says Frank roughly, nuzzling into Gerard's neck and inhaling the scent of soap and sweat and spices. Gerard is something special and rare and exotic, and Frank is never letting him go.

"When--" Gerard starts, but he never finishes his thought. A colossal booming noise rends the air, and the ground shakes beneath them.

They both freeze, waiting, and Frank can feel Gerard's heart kicking hard and fast in his chest, his breaths coming fast.

"What was that?" he breathes, as if he thinks there might be someone lying in wait and listening.

Frank shakes his head. "I don't know," he murmurs. "Come on." He slips quietly out of the bed and pads over to the window, peering out, with Gerard hot on his heels.

"Can you see anything?" Gerard says, looking out anxiously over Frank's shoulder.

They stand there in silence for a long moment, both naked, hearts thudding. "No," says Frank eventually. "But we can't stay here not knowing. We should go." He gathers his trousers, his shirt and his boots up off the floor and quickly hazards his way into them while Gerard does the same beside him. Frank picks up the lantern from the nightstand and takes Gerard's hand before kicking the door open and stepping cautiously out into the hallway. Not for the first time since he first came here, Frank aches for the weight of a flintlock pistol in his hand or the reassuring heft of a saber at his hip. Neither of them speaks as they creep towards the stairwell, hand in hand, Frank holding the lantern aloft like a shield against anything that might be hiding in the dark. As they reach the bottom of the stairs the ground trembles under their feet again, and they exchange worried glances. In the hallway at the bottom they find Ray, who looks similarly disheveled, wide-eyed, with his hair a manic halo around his face. Frank realizes that he's still holding Gerard's hand and promptly lets go of it, but fortunately it doesn't look as if Ray noticed.

"You heard it too," Ray says. "I'd hoped I was imagining things."

Frank shakes his head. "No such luck," he says grimly. "Could you see anything from your window?"

"Nothing. We ought to stay together until we know what's happening, where are the others?"

"Mikey," Gerard hisses, seizing Frank's arm in a death-grip, the color draining from his face. "Gods, he sleeps like the dead, he won't have woken up. He could be--"

"Gerard, stop," Ray interrupts, with the sort of ease born of the long experience. He looks as tense as a violin string, drawn tight, but he's still in a better state than Gerard. "We need to find out what those noises were. It might be nothing." He doesn't sound as if he believes it for a moment, but Gerard nods, his mouth set into a thin line and his face ashen.

"Come on," Frank whispers, making for the entrance hall, still holding the lantern up and peering into the gloom. He stops at the front door with Gerard and Ray hovering anxiously behind him and takes a deep breath, steeling himself before he nudges it open, just a sliver, and looks out.

Nothing. The night is still and silent, moonless and inky black. The air is warm and almost balmy, and smells like woodsmoke. Frank goes to pull the door shut again and tell Ray and Gerard that it was a false alarm and all is well - then freezes.

Woodsmoke.

The kitchen is empty. There's no reason for the air to smell like smoke, and there's no smoke without--

"Fire," Frank breathes, paralyzed by terror. He's never known fear like this before, monstrous and blinding and all-engulfing. With a colossal effort of will, he forces it back. He is a captain, and, should it come to it, he will die like one. He pushes one hand roughly through his hair and drags in a deep breath, like a drowning man clawing his way back up to the surface. "Ray, go-- go and find out where the fire is, see if you can stop it spreading. Gerard, go and wake Bob and Mikey, quick as you can, then get them both outside."

Ray nods grimly and takes off at a run down the hallway, but Gerard hesitates, wide-eyed as a petrified rabbit. "And you?" he says. "Frank, _please_ don't do anything stupid, I couldn't..."

"Go!" Frank roars, propelling Gerard firmly away, intending to startle him into obedience. Thankfully, _blessedly_ , it works. Gerard casts one last unhappy look over his shoulder and makes for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, already calling Mikey's name.

Frank takes another deep breath and drops to his knees, scrabbling for something, anything, that he might use to defend himself. His questing fingers brush a disembodied banister post and he seizes it, scrambling to his feet again and throwing himself towards the door. His makeshift club isn't as weighty as he'd like, but it will have to do. He curses the Sanctuary for its ridiculous rules about offensive weapons, for being a godforsaken rock suspended fathoms above even more godforsaken rocks, for making him care so damned much.

Frank flies through the front door, his heart in his throat, then pauses. He can see a little steam-powered skiff lying empty a little way away, the kind built to carry three or four people to and from the big imperial vessels that can't get close enough to docks for passengers to board. Soldiers, Frank thinks. Filthy, honorless whoresons. This transcends Frank's principles now, this is personal. He hefts the railing thoughtfully in his hand, then tucks it into his belt. Instead, he gathers up a handful of stones and fishes a grubby handkerchief from his pocket. Better, he thinks, weighing his rudimentary slingshot in his hand. It's been many years since he last sat on the docks throwing stones at storm-gulls, but he's sure he could still hit a filthy piece of vermin from fifty strides.

He pads back towards the house, staying within the safety of the shadows and making as little noise as possible. The scent of smoke is stronger now, more acrid, whipped up by the wind. He prays that Ray will be able to catch it before too much damage can be done.

"It would _help_ if we knew what we were looking for," snaps an irate voice, suddenly, and Frank ducks out of sight, ears pricked up. He knows that voice. It's one of the soldiers who pitched up claiming to have been attacked by their brothers in arms, one of the soldiers who sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed Ray's cooking and slept in the goosedown guest beds. Worthless, lying _bastards_ , Frank thinks, his lip curling. The wind has changed and he can't quite make out what they're saying, but he's almost sure there are two of them. Cowards.

The fire is growing. The smell is stronger now, the scent of woodsmoke gradually becoming tainted by something sharper and more acrid. Frank can hear it, the ominous crackling that scares him more than any monster ever could.

He raises his makeshift slingshot and drops a pebble into it, then starts to swing it around. This is for Gerard's greenhouse, he thinks, narrowing his eyes and concentrating on one of the indistinct silhouettes. One of them is complaining about the smoke making his eyes hurt. This is for Ray's kitchen and the men who took you in, you bastards.

He lets the stone fly and it shoots through the smoky air, straight at--

At the soldier who sneezes just as it's about to strike, and it soars past his ear. It bounces loudly off a wall, and both soldiers startle and shrink back into the shadows, suddenly guarded. Frank curses under his breath and hunkers down lower behind the odd statue shielding him from view. He had his chance, and he missed it. He bites down hard on his tongue, absolutely furious with himself. The soldiers are talking quietly to each other, and Frank strains to hear what they're saying.

"We need to leave," one is saying. "The longer we spend on this stupid rock, the more danger we're in."

"But we haven't found it yet!" the other soldier hisses, seizing the first one's arm. "She'll be livid, we can't return empty-handed! She's going to skin us alive!"

Of course. Spies, sent by the court to find out whether Gerard had cracked the riddle of the stone, come back to pick the fruits of his hard work. Frank chokes back the bitter, burning fury. The Sanctuary isn't a market stall offering pretty baubles to the Capital's gentry.

"Well, we're just going to have to, aren't we?" snaps the first soldier, wrenching his arm free. "If you ask me this is all nonsense anyway. This crackpot doesn't know anything, living out here has turned his head. I don't know why--"

Another expertly aimed pebble strikes him squarely between the eyes with a satisfying crack, and he yelps. Crouching behind his statue, Frank smiles a small, extremely nasty smile. Gerard and Ray can keep their principles; Frank will always be a pirate at heart. He sees the two figures hurrying back towards their abandoned skiff, but then they both stop dead. A lazy, sinuous plume of smoke is curling up from the little engine, and Frank's smile widens. Fools. They obviously weren't careful enough with their fire-starting apparatus, and now the carelessness has come back to bite them. The wind is whipping their words away but they're clearly arguing, and the panic in their voices is music to Frank's ears.

They seem to come to an agreement after a minute, and Frank inches forward, another stone at the ready, but it's too late. They're already jumping into the skiff and firing up the engine, unfurling the single auxiliary sail to ride the squalling gusts of wind. Frank curses the missed chance, but consoles himself with the fact that they won't get far. Even as he watches, a tongue of bright, angry flame shoots out of the engine.

"Frank!"

Frank turns, his heart in his throat, to see Ray making straight for him with Bob, Gerard and Mikey hot on his heels, and his stomach lurches with sheer relief. Thank all the gods. Mikey is stumbling and rubbing his eyes while the pained look on Bob's face makes it abundantly clear that his clockwork parts are still stiff and sleepy, but they're safe. Frank quickly relays what he's seen to the others, and Bob spits on the ground.

"Bastards," he growls. "What I wouldn't give for five minutes with those rats and a--"

Ray lays a hand on Bob's arm. He must be able to feel the gears working under Bob's skin, but he doesn't flinch. "Later," he says. "The fire's bad. Come on, we need your help."

He leads them all around the side of the house to an old-fashioned well, and as they round the corner, Frank draws a sharp, shocked breath. Flames are already reaching out through several of the windows, belching smoke into the night. It's worse than he'd feared. He stares up at, transfixed by horror, until Ray thrusts a bucket into his hands. Ray's face looks pale and drawn, without so much as a glimmer of his usual good cheer.

"Frank," he says, in a low, urgent voice. "Frank, look at me. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Frank says, firmly. "I'm fine. What do you need me to do?"

"Bob and I are going in with buckets to do what we can, Gerard and Mikey are drawing water up. Just pass the buckets back when they're empty."

"Understood," Frank says, and pulls himself together. He wants nothing more than to fall apart, but the others are all watching and, damn it all, they need him.

The five of them work in grim silence, Frank scurrying back and forth between the Ways and the burning building as the flames roar and broil inside. The wind is picking up, fanning the fire and burning their skin. Frank's shirt is soaked with sweat and plastered to his back and chest in no time, and the others don't seem to be faring any better. Out in the skies, an explosion sounds, and Frank thinks of the soldiers in their injured skiff. Somehow, he can't quite find it in himself to be sorry.

On his third or fourth run into the blazing hallway, a colossal, heavy rafter falls right in front of Frank with a mighty crash, spitting deadly little sparks that ignite the moth-eaten burgundy drapes at the windows.

"Frank?" Bob shouts through the pandemonium, a sharp note of worry coloring his voice. "Frank, are you alright?"

"It missed me," Frank calls back, and breaks off to cough and sputter as the smoke swirls its way into his delicate lungs. He stumbles through the fire and clumsily hands Bob the full bucket. Bob immediately upends it over a smoldering pile of books, which hiss like a kicked nest of snakes.

A sickening splintering noise sounds from deeper inside the house. Frank peers down the passageway to the kitchen and the bedrooms, but all he can see are more flames. It's spreading faster than they can hold it back, leaping towards them like a predator pursuing its tender, dewy-eyed prey, forcing them back towards the front door. Frank swallows back the panic, thick and sour and choking, and forces himself not to crack. He covers his nose and mouth with his forearm and staggers back out to Gerard and Mikey, waves of blistering heat like wolves at his back.

Gerard's hair is plastered to his forehead, and when he hands Frank another bucket of rainwater his hand shakes. Frank quells the desperate urge to hold him and kiss away all his fear and unhappiness, settling instead for a thin, fleeting smile, and takes the pail from him. Bob and Ray have been forced to retreat, and when Frank, panting and frantic and close to tears, thrusts the bucket at Ray, Ray shakes his head.

"It's too late!" he shouts over the noise of the fire. "Frank, we've lost, we have to get out before this place kills us."

"No," Frank says shakily, refusing point-blank to accept what Ray is telling him and trying to push past to get to the flames. "It isn't too late, come on, we can still save--" he stops again to cough, and looks pleadingly at Bob through the smoke. "Bob, you're with me, aren't you? We can't just give up!"

The look on Bob's face is all Frank needs to see to know his answer. He looks so sad, and something in Frank breaks. Even Bob - loyal, steadfast Bob who won't be daunted even by things that would kill most lesser men - knows there's no hope.

"But..." Frank starts, but Bob is already dragging him back outside.

"Go to the ship," Ray says firmly. "Get ready to leave, take Bob and Mikey with you. Gerard and I are going to seal off the cellars."

Frank opens his mouth to argue. He'll do whatever he has to do to save the Sanctuary, because even that wouldn't be enough to absolve him of his debt to this strange fable of a place with all the ways it's saved his life. Then he looks at Ray again, and closes it again. This is Ray's home. It must mean just as much to him as it does to Frank - if not more, he isn't a nomad like Frank is.

"Fine," he says. His eyes are watering. He tells himself it's just the smoke. "Fine, I'll do it. Just - be safe."

Ray claps him gratefully on the shoulder, and then Bob is leading him out of the burning building to the safety of the Caelifer.

Ray claps him gratefully on the shoulder, and then Bob is leading him out of the burning building to the safety of the Caelifer. Bob has a tight grip on Frank's arm, the steel and copper hot under Bob's skin, guiding Frank away from the fire. Frank stumbles in his wake, taking two strides for every one of Bob's. When he looks back over his shoulder, there's a fountain of smoke spilling from the windows and flames licking at the stonework.

Frank has never felt so sick nor so sad as he does then, running like a coward while his home burns.

"There's nothing you can do," Bob says grimly, in a tone that brooks no argument, pressing on resolutely towards the dock.

"I know," Frank says wretchedly. "I know, but..." he trails off, frustrated. He feels as if he's failed this place. He's dimly aware of Ray calling Gerard help him, and Bob seizes Mikey's arm as they pass him.

"Don't," Bob says tersely, before Mikey can even open his mouth. "I'm getting you two madmen out before you can kill yourselves trying to help."

Frank looks behind him again, desperate for so much as a glimpse of Gerard's face so he can-- he doesn't know what. But just to see him would have been enough, and he's already hurrying away in Ray's wake. Frank's stomach turns. Just when he had everything, had heaven itself in his hands, he lost it all again. He should have seen it coming.

"Up," Bob orders when they reach the end of the quay, propelling Frank towards the rope ladder hanging down towards them. "Go! You two get on board, I'll join you when I've loosed the anchors."

"But - Ray and Gerard," Mikey starts, panting hard. His lungs aren't suited to this sort of thing at all, he must really be suffering. "Bob, we can't leave them behind!"

Bob looks at him, torn and sad and afraid. "Pray we don't have to," he says. "We'll wait as long as we can. Now, come on. Up."

Shocked into acquiescence, Mikey starts up the ladder. Frank looks back at the fire one more time, then claps Bob on the shoulder. There's a lot he wants to say, but for now, this will have to be enough.

Anyway, Bob knows.

As the fire begins to creep outwards from the house, Frank catches hold of the ladder and starts to heave himself up. He collapses in a graceless heap of limbs on the deck, half on top of Mikey, and rolls away. He's suddenly terribly, terribly tired. Bob follows a minute later, and starts winding the crank that will draw the anchors back into the hull. Frank watches him in a stupor, completely numb. By the time it even occurs to him to help, Bob is firmly pushing him back down and vanishing below decks. He's back again before long, his arms filled with assorted quilts from their sleeping quarters. He drops one into Frank's lap with a wry smile and hands the other one to Mikey.

"Thank you," Frank says weakly, his voice dry and cracked. "Much appreciated." He means Bob, not the kind gesture, but he doesn't feel it really needs saying.

"You'd be lost without me," Bob says dryly. "You two stay here and look out for Ray and Gerard, I'm going to fire up the engine. I don't like the look of the wind tonight."

Frank wraps a moth-eaten coverlet (stolen from an overstuffed mansion on the outskirts of the Capital; he doubts its owners ever missed it) around his shoulders and sits up straighter, looking out over the Caelifer's pitted side. As he watches, the north tower collapses in on itself with a ponderous, splintering crash. Frank suddenly remembers that his spyglass was in the little room at the top, and imagines it charred and blackened, the lens warped beyond recognition. Next to him, Mikey's face is expressionless, but his white knuckles give him away. Frank wishes there were something he could do. To lose a brother not once but twice would just be too cruel.

Another crash sounds, this one sharp and tinkling like a great mirror breaking, and Frank knows without even looking that it's the greenhouse. He closes his eyes, letting out a long breath and feeling sick to his stomach. What a waste. What an awful, tragic waste. The fire is spreading fast, moving inexorably towards them. They don't have long left before they have to choose: leave their friends behind or stay and die with them.

His eyes are stinging, and he realizes distantly that his cheeks are wet. He doesn't reach up to dry them. He feels like a puppet with its strings cut, helpless and powerless and unfeeling.

Seconds tick into minutes and time ceases to be. Frank couldn't say how long they've been waiting; hours? Days? All he knows is that with every passing instant his hope burns a little lower, like a guttering candle.

"They won't come," Mikey says softly. "It's too late, they should be back by now."

"They will," Frank says fiercely. "Of course they will. Just you wait."

They resume their silent watch while the Sanctuary burns. The main hall soon goes the same way as the north tower, and then the whole of the east wing. Frank has seen men die, watched the light leave their eyes as their bodies give up the fight, but this will haunt him until the day he dies. Tick tock, tick tock. How long now? He couldn't possibly stay. The sky looks a shade lighter than it did, notes of dusty purple beginning to tint the inky blue, but it could just be his imagination.

He lets the world blur and dim around him. He wants to fall asleep and never wake up. It's what he deserves. He couldn't save his friend and he couldn't save the man he loves, just like he couldn't save Bob. Another wave of weariness washes over him, almost closing his eyes. Suddenly angry with himself, he wrenches them open again and stares until he sees the after-image of the blaze when he blinks.

And then he sees them.

Two little matchstick men, leaning heavily on each other, stumbling towards the quay with the fire on their heels.

Frank leaps to his feet, his exhaustion falling away like dead leaves. "Mikey! Mikey, look! Here they come!"

Mikey's face splits into a broad, genuine smile, the kind Frank has only ever seen a handful of times before. The relief growing in Frank's chest swells like a dirigible, almost making it hard for him to breathe. Thank all the gods, thank earth and sky and whatever is watching over them right now. Mikey runs to fetch Bob from the engine room while Frank watches Gerard and Ray's progress anxiously, his heart in his throat. They're barely outrunning the flames by a whisker; they'll have to launch as soon as Ray and Gerard are aboard.

"Come on," he shouts, neither knowing nor caring if they can hear him. Gerard reaches the foot of the rope ladder first and swings up onto it clumsily, and Frank waits with impatient elation. Finally, finally, his head appears over the top of the bulwark, ashen and sooty, and Frank seizes him and pulls him onto the deck. He doesn't let go immediately, unable to tear himself away. His face is pressed into Gerard's shoulder, and he's crying again. He's too overcome to speak. It feels right, having Gerard back in his arms. Finally, he detaches himself to help Ray up and pull the ladder up after him. The narrow gantry is burning now, the dry wood glowing and splintering already.

"Go!" Bob roars, and Frank throws himself across the deck to the helm.

"Hold on tight, men," he bellows, spinning the wheel and wrapping his other hand tightly around a lever. The Caelifer purrs, soaring up and away like a stone from a slingshot. The wind is whipping past them, fanning the flames below, and Frank is acutely aware of the very real danger that they could be pulled in if they don't make enough space between it and themselves. He's seen forest fires from the skies before, and he's watched ships find themselves sucked into the burning whirlpools. He flies them away from the fire as fast as he can, the engine roaring the roar of a charging beast. The Caelifer is singing with joy.

Behind him, he can hear the others. laughing and cheering, and he feels utterly elated. He eases off, and the ship drifts to a slow halt as he turns to look behind him. There they stand, all four of them tired and disheveled and soot-smeared and alive, and all grinning at Frank.

Frank's knees feel weak, and the next thing he knows, he's staggering forward and Ray is enfolding him in a bear hug. Bob, Gerard and Mikey crowd in, and Frank disappears into their arms. Frank feels completely drained, as if he's run out of fuel and has finally sputtered to a stop.

"I think we all owe you our lives," Ray says, sounding rather choked, and several murmurs of agreement sound from around Frank's head. He feels warm and safe, cocooned and surrounded by more friends than he ever thought he'd have in his life. He doesn't know how long they stay like that, each and every one of them unwilling to break the spell. When Frank finally does step back and they break apart, he finds himself lost for words.

"Thank you," he manages eventually. "All of you. Gods, I can't believe it." He doesn't know whether he wants to cry again or throw his head back and laugh. Bob slaps him on the back and Mikey flashes him a thin, weak smile while Gerard steps closer so Frank can lean on him. They all fall silent, and, as one, they look back at the Sanctuary. It's almost completely engulfed in flames now, and, as a blazing beacon in the darkness before the dawn, it's oddly beautiful.

"I think," Bob says at last, when the chill wind has started to tug at their hair and bite at their extremities, "That we've all earned a good night's sleep. Ray, if you'd care to come with me, we can find you a spare cot belowdecks."

"Lead on," mumbles Ray around a yawn, and Bob and Mikey bear him off to bed. Frank watches them go, all leaning heavily on each other, and his heart swells. His crew, his friends, his family; all safe and sound. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Gerard, who he can't help but notice has started to shiver.

"I'm sorry," he says, not meeting Gerard's eyes, choosing instead to gaze out at the horizon as the new day begins to break. "I... did what I could to save the place. I know you loved it."

Much to Frank's surprise, Gerard shrugs. "I'm going to miss it," he says, with a wry smile. "I'm not used to change, I suppose. Not like you, anyway. But it isn't really so bad."

"Not really so bad?" Frank repeats, somewhat disbelieving. "You've just lost all your work! The stone! Youth eternal, all of that. It's all gone."

Gerard wanders over to the edge of the deck and rests his elbows on the railing. "I know," he says. "And I'm glad."

Frank looks at him suspiciously. He's seen this before, men going mad rather than accepting the truth of a matter. "Gerard," he says levelly, "have you lost your mind?"

"Oh, almost certainly," says Gerard lightly. "A long time ago now, I should think. But if you ask me, it's a blessing in disguise. No one should live forever. Can you imagine anything worse?"

Frank can imagine lots of things that would be worse. Starving to death, for instance, or feeling your own skin melting as you died horribly in a fire. But he lets it go for now.

"It was your home, though," he protests, worried by Gerard's perplexing indifference. Perhaps tonight's madness really has knocked something loose inside that head of his.

Gerard chuckles, and darts a sidelong look at Frank. "Once upon a time it was, yes," he says. "But home isn't always a place."

Frank's stomach turns. "Oh?" he says, and licks his lips. His heart is kicking in his chest again. "So your home now, that would be...?"

Gerard turns to meet his eyes properly, sweet and guileless and unguarded, a fever dream cut from the fabric of the sky itself. "You," he says, simply. "If you'll have me, of course."

Not here. Not this ship, but - _you_.

"I," says Frank lamely. "Well, I... yes. Of course. Of course I will. Although there might be more trouble. Soldiers looking for answers, that sort of thing."

And Gerard takes Frank's hand and says, simply, "Good."

And it was.


End file.
